The Book of Fire Page 37

  “Or we must help them somehow. In my father’s day, there were pipelines and . . . Luco?”

  “You will excuse me, my priestess. Now that the formalities are done, I must see to Temple business while all are here assembled.”

  He rises, and spends the rest of the meal working the lower table. He is clearly relieved when Paia, her servants, and the two Daughters of the Temple are ushered into the Chapter House to spend the night. It’s only one dingy room with a stone floor and an attached privy, but a high row of windows along each side provides good ventilation. Paia decides to let Luco do all the worrying, since he seems inclined to do it anyway. Resisting the fussing of the red-robed Two, she lets the chambermaid, who has been hovering nearby, prepare her for bed. When she lays herself out on the tall pile of sheep’s wool mattresses provided for her comfort, she falls instantly asleep.

  And she dreams, oh, such dreams. So many and so rich. It must be the food, or being out in the open air. All her nights up till this one seem quiet by comparison, as if the bedrock of the Citadel somehow stifled her dreaming and now she is making up for lost time.

  Images flash by, too many and too sudden to hold on to. Strange faces and places, and others she recognizes. Her father, for instance, lecturing her gravely about duty and responsibility. But he is surrounded by huge piles of books that topple and bury him before he can tell her what duty he’s talking about. The books all crumble into dust that swirls up in clouds like the dust on the road. When it clears, there is no sign of her father. She is standing in front of the painting, back at the Citadel. The landscape is as it was when she first saw it, lush, green, inviting—in tragic contrast with the desiccated countryside she has been traveling through. It sits on a tall easel in a darkened room. A huge gilt frame surrounds it, overwhelming its simpler beauties with gaudy carvings of fruit and flowers. As she moves closer, the carvings resolve into the sinuous figures of dragons, intertwined, chasing each other around the frame. Tiny jewels sparkle in their eyes: ruby, sapphire, emerald, diamond.

  She moves closer, searching for the image of the God in the carving. Frame and landscape enlarge. She stands in front of the painting as if before an enormous window. A breath of wind tousles her hair, and the window becomes an open doorway. The frame is the stone portal that guards the entrance to the House Computer’s inner sanctum in the Citadel Library, but the Library is nowhere in view.

  PAIA!

  Someone is calling from outside the door, in a musical lilt that makes her very name sound magical, as if the wind itself were speaking.

  PAIA!

  The sweet voice resonates in the same place inside her as the God’s silent summons. Paia peers around the side of the portal, sees no one.

  PAIA!

  Perhaps the caller is just beyond those trees. Paia steps forward.

  With a roar and a flash, her way is barred by a sudden curtain of flame. White heat sears her eyelashes and hair. Paia stumbles backward with a cry, and wakes.

  At first, she thinks she’s in her own room, then she doesn’t know where she is. Then she’s sure she’s still sleeping.

  The God is standing at the foot of her bed. The room is the same darkened room of her dream except for the God, who shimmers with his own angry glow. Paia waits for him to speak. But he just stares at her, for so long that the hot rage cools in his eyes, fading to gray. His light seeps out of the room like the end of day, and Paia is overcome by inexplicable grief. She bolts upright. Dream or not, she reaches for him. “My lord!”

  The God eyes her bleakly, then shakes his head and turns away, a faint glow gliding through darkness like a fish through soundless depths, back and forth, back and forth.

  “Do you find it beautiful, all that damp and green?”

  Paia swallows. Yes is obviously the wrong answer.

  “What about me? Am I not beautiful? Is not the kingdom I’ve created more beautiful than this?”

  He gestures into the darkness, and the painting reappears, only to explode into flame. Even as it burns, Paia can see the trees dying and the landscape shriveling into desert. A sob rises in her throat, but she holds her tongue. The servants and Temple Daughters sleep on as if nothing could wake them.

  “She seeks to win you to their cause, beloved.”

  “She, my lord?” His enemies have never had a gender before.

  “My sister.”

  “Your what?” Now Paia is sure she is dreaming, though the tears on her cheeks feel real enough.

  “My sister, who plagues me even from the confines of her prison.” He paces away. “Well. How goes your Visitation so far? Are you teaching the Faithful to love me?”

  She absorbs his bitterness like a lash. “They will, if they follow my example. If only you would be there with me, the teaching would be simple.”

  The God rolls his golden eyes at her.

  “My lord, a dream means nothing! Why do you insist on doubting me?”

  “THIS dream means everything! I wasn’t sure how deeply she had touched you. Now I know, even if you do not.” He paces back to stand beside the bed, then sits, though the sheep’s wool mattresses show no sign of added weight. He stares searchingly into Paia’s face as if into the farthest reaches of her soul. He traces the shape of her chin with his palm, millimeters from her skin, and the tears dry on her cheeks.

  “Oh, my dearest lord,” she whispers.

  He leans in as if to kiss her, but Paia feels only heat, little tongues of flame licking at her lips, curling into her parted mouth, seeking the back of her throat. It is both intense pain and deepest pleasure, but Paia smells no burning flesh so the only sensation she knows is real is her overwhelming surge of desire. If only she could press herself against him, let his glorious heat fill her in all ways. But to grasp him now would be to grasp air. The pain and her hunger take her together like a whirlwind. Whimpers and groans mix deep in her throat.

  Abruptly, he pulls away, leaving her gasping. Her mouth feels like it’s been stung by a thousand bees. She touches her tongue to her lips delicately.

  “Have I damaged you, my priestess?”

  Paia has never seen the God’s perfect face so taut with rage and tragedy. “I . . . don’t think so.”

  “You see how it is, then.”

  “Yes. I see.” What Paia really sees is their private ritual of Holy Ecstasy for what it is: the only way the God can pleasure her as a man would do. What, she wonders, does he get out of it? “Is there no other way?”

  After a long moment, he replies, “I have managed much. This I cannot. And because of this, you will betray me.”

  Returning grief stuns her, stealing the protest from her mouth. As she struggles to speak, the God holds up a gilded hand. “Do not make promises you do not understand.” When he sighs, it is like the magma rumbling at the volcano’s heart. “It is not your fault. You lack the means to resist them.”

  “I will not believe it!”

  “How would you know?” He sighs again, looks down. “Perhaps you are right. I should not have kept you so long in ignorance.”

  “My lord Fire . . .”

  “Do not speak.” He stands, insubstantial as air, as weighty as centuries. “I will have the painting destroyed,” he says, and vanishes.

  And Paia wakes, this time for certain, amid the snoring of the other priestesses. Her fists and jaw are clenched, her pillow slick with tears.

  How can this be?

  If her father’s library holds the truth, if the long centuries of blood and history have truly decreed this indelible bond, why would it be shaped in a way that can only break both their hearts? What purpose would there be in it?

  Surely history has gone wrong somehow.

  For the rest of the long night, Paia ponders how to even think about putting it right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Tinkers will not be rushed. After two idle days of waiting through their prep for the big trade expedition, N’Doch and the baron are getting restless. For different reasons, o
f course. N’Doch, because he’s picking it up from the dragons, no matter how hard he tries to resist. The baron, because restlessness is his natural state, as far as N’Doch can tell.

  Mostly to bug him, N’Doch pretends to relish the long hot days spent mostly within hands’ reach of Blind Rachel’s chill pool.

  “You just gotta lighten up some, Dolph. A little r ’n r is good for a man of war like yerself.” He trails his hand in the cooling water, then drips it luxuriously across his bare chest.

  Köthen merely grunts, then spits on the honing stone he’s cadged off Luther and sets the blade of his dagger to the dampened surface. “I’ve many times wished for Hal Engle at my side,” he muses, rotating the already lethal steel in small, precise circles, “but now more than ever.”

  “What? I’m not good enough for you?”

  Without ceasing his honing, Köthen gazes out into the amber darkness of the dusk-shadowed woods. “Hal Engle knows everything there is to know about dragons. He would know how best to kill one, I imagine.”

  N’Doch sits up straighter. “Whoa. No one’s said anything about killing. If this ‘monsta’ of theirs is Fire, and he has got Air stashed away someplace, killing him ain’t gonna help us one bit.”

  “But it might help the local populace.”

  “Hey, man, you didn’t even want to be here. What the hell d’you care about the local populace?”

  Köthen shrugs, not a thing N’Doch sees him do all that often, since the baron’s not much into either indecision or ambivalence. “They appear to be in need, and they have requested our help.”

  “Oh. I get it.” N’Doch nods sagely, wondering how he got so brave, to be talking like this to a man with both a temper and a very sharp blade. “Now I know the kinda guy you are. You think you can fix everything, right? Whatever’s wrong, you’re gonna be the man for it.”

  Köthen doesn’t leave off making his neat little circles on the stone. “There’s no success without effort.”

  The man’s self-restraint is admirable, N’Doch decides, now that he’s got it back in hand. He’s settling in to his exile with the scary kind of patience that usually portends an explosion of action when the time comes. N’Doch’s never known a man who could make his silences so loud. The Tinkers walk softly around Köthen, but never fail to let him know they’re glad to have him as an ally. “You’re just bored, is what you are. But listen up, Dolph. Don’t you let the girl hear you talk about killing dragons.”

  Now Köthen looks up. “Perhaps if I did, it would finally affect the disillusionment I’ve been unable thus far to achieve.”

  “Mebbe. I wouldn’t count on it, though.”

  An odd crackling off among the trees alerts them both.

  “Horses,” says Köthen, with mild wonder.

  “Nah, c’mon. Here?” N’Doch gets to his feet, squinting into the dim spaces between the trunks and branches.

  Köthen spits on his stone again, listening. “Horses, unshod. No riders. No, they’re . . .” He looks up, frowning, as a crowd of large animals noses its way through the woods to the edge of the pool, followed by several of the Tinker children. “Ah, that’s it. They’re mules.”

  “Damn.” N’Doch is impressed, both by Köthen’s ear and the animals’ size. They look strong and tough, if a bit on the thin side.

  Köthen sheathes his dagger and stands to make room as the herd lowers their long heads to drink. His hands move over them eagerly, smoothing flanks, assessing leg muscles.

  “There’s some skill to breeding a good mule.”

  N’Doch stands back. He’s not so easy being surrounded by large hoofed animals. “Wonder where they’ve been keeping them.”

  “Yo! Dockman!” Luther calls from behind. He slaps a lagging mule toward the water and ambles over to join them, gesturing at the stone in Köthen’s belt. “Yu dun wit’ dat?”

  Köthen nods, offering it back. “Ja, danka.”

  “Time ta pack up, nah. Yu ready?”

  “Betcha!” N’Doch waves a hand at the mule herd. “Where’d all this come from?”

  “Up da hill sum. Dey’s grass deah, sumat.” Luther laughs, a mournful hollow sound. “Didna tink we was gonna haul dem waggins by oursels, didju? Das fer townfolk!”

  When suddenly the next dawn proved to be departure day, Erde watched the hitchup with eager interest. The sturdy mules reminded her of Sir Hal’s uncanny beast, and that set her worrying about how matters were in Deep Moor, and with the war. She wished Linden was here, for the youngest Tinker baby was ill with a mysterious ailment that their own herbalist could not seem to cure. Erde considered stealing the child and whisking it off to the dragon in the woods. He thought perhaps he could help. But the mother never left it alone for a minute, and it was still not time to let the Tinkers in on the true nature of their new allies.

  It was good to be on the move again, even better that her heavy pack would travel in the wagons instead of on her back. Erde had been able to learn a lot in her two days at Blind Rachel, about the villagers and their dragon worship. The information had only upset her own dragons further, but it had decided them that confrontation was the best course, and that there was no time to lose. The search for Air would take a back seat to the search for Fire. Now both dragons were sure that one would lead to the other.

  AND MEANWHILE, YOU WILL REST HERE AND BE COMFORTABLE?

  I DO NOT NOTICE SUCH THINGS.

  YOU NOTICE WHEN YOU’RE HUNGRY.

  INDEED I DO, AND WE SHALL NEED TO BE THINKING ABOUT THAT SOON.

  The woods around the Tinker camp were nearly barren of wildlife. Certainly there was nothing big enough to keep a dragon fed. Erde found herself gazing at the mules and averted her eyes guiltily.

  I WILL BUY YOU SOMETHING FAT AND SWEET WHEN WE REACH THE VILLAGES.

  If there is such a thing in the villages. And what will you buy it with, girl?

  Leave it to Lady Water to come up with a fuller understanding of commerce. But for her dagger and the dragon brooch pinned inside her shirt, Erde had nothing of value.

  I’LL TRADE FOR IT. I’LL THINK OF SOMETHING.

  “Of course you will, little sister.” The dragon-as-Sedou joined her, laughter in his eyes. “Don’t mind me. All set to leave? The signal’s been given. Come walk along with me. The day’s just begun, yet I sense we are nearing our journey’s end.”

  Earth felt it, too. He said it was like hearing a rumbling in the distance for ever so long, and then finally spotting the thunderhead. And the summons had strengthened again, he said, that silent call that only the dragons heard. Erde was sad to leave him behind again. She welcomed Sedou’s company, since N’Doch had decided to walk with Baron Köthen in the rear. More than half the crew was going along, leaving only a handful of elderly to care for the rabbits and goats and to water the little kitchen gardens, plus a small warrior contingent assigned to the camp’s defense.

  But Erde understood why. Listening carefully over the past few days, especially to Luther who did not mince words, had made it clear that this trip was more than the usual “biz.” Despite the beauty of their stronghold and Stoksie’s irrepressible cheer, Blind Rachel Crew’s situation was deteriorating. Their trade stocks were precariously low, their stores of staple foods even lower. Their survival as a community depended on the success of this expedition. At least the continuation of their water supply was now assured, though none of them knew it. Erde wished she could tell them, to relieve at least one source of their constant anxiety.

  She and Sedou joined the line of wagons midway as it rolled out of camp. The road outward did not appear to be a road at all. The first several hours were a trek across crumbling stone ledges and dry, scrub-choked meadows. Erde pointed out to Sedou how both wagons and walkers spread out in a wide fan formation wherever space permitted.

  “I believe they hope to leave as faint a trace of our passage as possible.” He circled a hand in the air. “Not even much of a dust cloud raised.”

  She nodded, intrigued
by the Tinkers’ quiet methods of defense. Her father, Baron Josef, would have built a big stone wall around such a stronghold, then loudly challenged all comers to vanquish it.

  Before the sun was high, the expedition was several leagues from the camp by Erde’s estimation, stretched out in a long, lazy line. The pace had slowed to an odd kind of waiting. But then, at a call from up front, each walker and wagon turned abruptly left from where they were, and moved downslope into a broad stand of sharp-needled evergreens. These young trees looked so thick and healthy that Erde wondered if someone had been watering them, like they did back in camp. Passage between the trunks was so narrow that the rough branches scraped the sides of the bigger wagons. The mules groaned and protested, but on the other side of the grove, Erde saw they had come out onto what N’Doch would call a “real” road, paved like a castle courtyard with that pale seamless stone he called concrete. The low, heavy greenery screened their sideways approach to the road as effectively as any big stone wall, or perhaps more so, for the fact of not announcing itself.

  Once on the road, though it was cracked and pitted and dotted with tall tufts of weeds, the expedition moved faster. They descended through dusty pine scrub onto more open slopes of thorn brush and brittle yellow grasses that rustled like a woman’s skirts in the hot breezes. Here and there, a few stunted hardwoods clung to the hillsides, bent over with drought and wind. Along one such dry meadow, the Tinkers stopped to rest, by habit or common consent, Erde could never tell. Their decision-making process was often too diffuse for her even to detect. Two or three walkers left the road and plunged into the scrub, to answer a call of Nature, she assumed. But a wave from one brought another dozen leaping down from the carts and caravans, armed with buckets and long-handled baskets of metallic mesh. Others followed more slowly.

  “Bluburry,” announced Stoksie as he limped past, a bucket in each hand. “Real gud trade, bluburry. Be heah a while, den. Yu doin’ okay, nah?”

  Erde nodded gratefully, looking to Sedou for help with the English, which she could understand now but still had trouble pronouncing.