Authors: Michelle Sagara

Tags: #christmas, #dragon, #phoenix, #unicorn

Birthnight (3 page)

BOOK: Birthnight

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She was different, and although he did not
desire to possess her or hoard her, he felt something that reminded
him of his... youth. The star flared suddenly brilliant, and his
eyes were drawn to it. Before he understood why, he had opened his
great jaws; the sound of his trumpeting filled the quiet night with
yearning.

And as he turned the corner of the bending
path-made-real, the forest suddenly ended in mid-tree. A blanket of
cold, dry sand lay underfoot, and beyond it, so far away that even
his eyes could make out no details, lay a small mortal town. High
above it, a heart exposed, the star burned in beautiful relief.

They were almost upon it.

* * *

There was nothing but for the Queen of Faerie
to lead the regal procession through the uncomfortable desert. The
cold, of course, bothered no one—but the very disappearance of her
magically called trees displeased her. She bore the circlet of
silver across her flawless face, and her hair, pale and fine,
draped from her shoulder to the hem of her magnificent cloak. Her
people attended to her in their own way; they played beautiful,
haunting melodies on pipes and harps and chimes; they danced and
whispered her praises in their soft, fey voices. It did not lighten
her mood.

At night, the streets were still; the animals
slept away from the cold of the night air in tight little boxes
that no dragon would have fit in, had he cared to try. People—and
the town had the look of a busy, crowded place—had also disappeared
into their dwellings, which were, for the most part, even tinier
than those built for their animals.

They tread the road in silence; even the
voices of the sylvan folk dropped away into a hush. The phoenix
hovered an inch or two above the ground, which was as close to
earth as he ever came, except in the dying; the harpies’ endless
stream of abuse and obscenities had run dry. The unicorn spoke
once; no one would have urged her to be silent.

“Can you feel it?” She whispered, as her
hooves did a delicate little dance, “can you feel it?”

There was something in the air, something
familiar—a word that hovered close to the tongue without quite
being caught and uttered. The dragon shook his mighty head, as if
to clear it, but before he could answer, the manger came into
view.

It was as the other buildings to the eye;
straw strewn about the wood and mud floor; ox and mule within in
stabled walls, sheep and goat without, in a fenced enclosure. But
above it, the star burned bright, burned direct; and there was a
tingle in the eyes and heart that viewed this humble building that
was undeniable. One door, a ramshackle old eyesore, was off its
hinge, and it swung in the wind, creaking.

Except that there was no wind. The air was
dead and cool.

They had come to kill a child. The child
waited. His parents—the black dragon could not think of who else
the haggard, sleeping couple could be—lay to either side of him,
faces buried in their dirty, tired arms. They slept. But He did
not.

His eyes were wide, unblinking—as beautiful
and deep as a dragon’s unlidded eyes. His face was peaceful; he
wanted no milk, no food, no sleep. He stared out upon them, as if
they had come to pay him court.

The black dragon lost his breath a moment, as
he viewed this perfect, tiny child. No gold, no jewel from the
earth’s bowel, had ever been so flawless. He felt a tug, like
hunger, and knew a pang that he had not felt since his early days
in a younger world. He almost rushed forward, to pluck the babe
from matted straw and carry it off in a rush of wings to the safety
of his caverns.

And then the child spoke. “Welcome.”

It was the voice of magic’s birth. The babe
lifted his hands in no infant’s gesture. Palms up, in offering or
welcome, he greeted them all from his coarse throne of straw and
hay, in his rough robes of peasant infancy. He did not ask why they
had come.

“Changeling,” whispered the Queen of Faerie,
a tremor in her voice.

“No,” the child answered. “I am born of a
mortal parent.”

From behind the ranks of her court, she came.
Her face was fair and pale—as perfect and blemishless as his—yet
her walk seemed stiff and oddly ancient; there was no grace left in
it.

The child looked up at her.

She did not speak of what she saw in his
eyes, but she froze; meeting the gaze of the basilisk or the Medusa
would have had less effect. She could not move forward, and at last
retreated, with just a whisper of forest darkness in which to veil
her failure.

And she was not without power; calling upon
the green, she whispered a single word as she made her passage.
“Sister.”

The unicorn bowed her head; her horn touched
ground, gleaming in the unnatural light. She approached the child,
taking delicate, hesitant steps; the weight of the Queen’s request
was tangible, terrible.

And because she could not lift her ageless,
open eyes, she met the child’s gaze, and her horn shuddered to a
stop, an inch away from his covered breast.

“Sister,” he said, and his delicate, tiny
fingers touched the tip of the golden spirals. “We do not war among
ourselves.”

“You are not of our number,” the Queen of
Faerie replied, before the trembling unicorn could speak.

“He is.” It was not the child who answered,
but the Sphinx. She was large, although not so magnificently vast
as the dragon, and she could not approach the newborn godling, but
nonetheless she made her presence felt by the side of his ephemeral
cradle.

The dragon turned an eye to the side to catch
her inscrutable profile; he listened carefully, to better hear the
word-game that was certain to follow.

For the first time in the sphinx’s long
history, no riddle came. “He is the last of our number; there will
be no more.”

Not even a whisper disturbed the stillness
that followed her pronouncement. The star flared suddenly; the sky
turned the chary gray of misted day. The godling began to rise, to
float in the air as if it were a solid and fitting throne. His
fingers still held to the unicorn’s horn, and her head rose as he
did, until all could see the anchor that she formed, unwitting.

“He said that he was born of mortal parents,”
the Queen protested. “He did not lie.” But she stared,
transfixed.

“Mortal parent and endless magic,” he
answered softly. “I have come to show you rest and peace, if you
will have it.”

“What peace?” The Sphinx asked.

“There is a garden that waits for you, as new
and green and perfect as this world once was. Sister,” he said,
gazing down upon the unicorn’s face, “there are still pools and
endless forests; there is silence and beauty; there is a home that
waits your presence. Will you walk it?”

“And what of this world?” She asked, in a
voice so tremulous, even the dragon barely heard it.

“It is old and tired, as are you, who echo
it. You have become the dreams and the nightmares of mortal, dying
men. Wake, and walk free.”

She gazed up at him; the black dragon tried,
and failed, to catch her expression. “I will walk in your
garden.”

“Then go.” He said, and suddenly, the unicorn
began to fade.

Startled, the dragon roared. His breath
plumed out in a cloud of red fire and wind. It disturbed
nothing.

The godling floated away from the manger, and
came next to the Sphinx. “You knew,” he said quietly, and she
nodded, lifting her face for his infant’s touch.

“I have grown tired of riddles and endless
questions. My thanks for the final answer.” And she too faded from
view.

To the harpies, he gave the promise of
comfort and lack of hunger. To the phoenix, he gave the heart of
his star—youth eternal, perfect glory. One by one, the immortals
gave ground, until the streets were near empty.

The Queen of Faerie stood among her people;
the black dragon stood alone. It was to the court of the Queen that
the child went.

“What do you have to offer me?” She said
proudly, a hint of fear in her eyes. “For this world of mortals is
my world, and their dreams are my life. Will you take them from
me?”

“No, greatest of my sisters,” he said, and
his voice grew stronger, fuller; his eyes were the color of
starlight. “I am born of mortals, and to them I offer my garden as
well. They will dance at your behest, live and love at your side,
and know ... paradise. You will have circles wider and greater than
any, but you will never lose these loves to death and decay.”

“It is their dying that makes them
interesting,” she answered coldly.

“It is now; it was not always so. Their death
has tainted you.”

“And you would give me death to relieve that
taint?” Her lips turned up in something that was not even close to
a smile.

“Yes,” was the stark reply, for no one with
mortal blood can lie to the most terrible of Queens. “The choice is
yours.”

“And if I refuse?”

He shrugged, but his face showed pain. “You
refuse. But they will go, in the end, to those gardens—and you will
never know them. You will dwindle; the forests will shrink and die
at the coming tide of man.”

She closed her eyes, knowing as always the
truth of what she heard. “I ... will go.”

The black dragon thought her more beautiful,
then, than she had ever been, as she preceded her people into the
unknown.

* * *

“There is only you, now.” It was true; but
for the black dragon and the godling, the streets were empty, and
the first rays of dawn were turning the skies. “Will you go?”

“Yes,” the dragon answered quietly. There was
no hesitation in his voice. “But why have you left me for
last?”

The little godling made no answer. But he
seemed frail now, as if the passing of each immortal had robbed him
of substance.

“What will you be, when we are gone?”

“Mortal,” the child answered, in an oddly
still voice.

“Mortal?”

“Yes. But not to other mortals. I will be
their light and their darkness. I will give them hope, and I will
be the cause of their despair. I will be miracle and mundanity; I
will be magic and the law that ends all magic. You have killed
thousands, brother—numbers undreamt of will die in my name. The
peerless one healed hundreds, and numbers greater will also find
healing. You were their dreams; I shall take your place.”

“And what will
your
dream be?”

The child laughed at the gleam in the
dragon’s eyes. “There will be gold for you in paradise; it was hard
to manage.” But the dragon was not to be put off by humor, and the
laughter faded into stillness. “My dream? Paradise.” He looked at
his own tiny palms and perfect feet. Shivered.

“And how,” the dragon asked quietly, “will
you reach paradise? Who will give you passage?” Dragons think
deeply, when they choose to think at all.

“You were not listening,” the godling said
sadly. “I will be mortal, and I will die. My people will kill me
slowly.” The starlight faded from his eyes, and left a film in its
wake. “Will you—will you wait for me there?” It was the first and
last time that he sounded like a child.

The dragon took a deep breath, and a hint of
smoke curled round his nostrils. “Will I have true fire again?”

“Forever.”

“Then I will wait.”

The child reached out with a shaky hand, but
the dragon shied from his touch. “No, no, little godling. I will
wait here.”

“You can’t,” was the flat answer. “When the
sun crests the horizon, there will be no immortals left.”

“Then you lied to the Queen!” The dragon’s
roar was the breath of a chuckle.

“I lied.”

“What will happen at full sun-rise?”

“You will be mortal.”

“Human?”

The child nodded, his gaze intent.

“I will die as you do, then. But still...I
will wait.”

“You will remember me; I can promise that
much—but I think I will forget this as I grow.” Again fear touched
his features, and he spoke quickly; sunrise was almost upon them
both. “Remember what it was like to be old and tired—to be only
dream, with no reality. Remember that, and when the time comes, do
what must be done to free me.”

The dragon bowed his mighty head, and the
child touched his nostril. Where once a huge, black serpent had
towered above the ground, there now stood a very young boy. He
caught the child carefully in his arms as the sun came, and gazed
up to see the dying, and the birthing, of an age. Then he crept
into the manger, kissed the quiet child’s forehead, and laid him
back down against the straw.

Three decades later, for thirty pieces of
silver—a metal he had always disdained—the dragon found a way to
bring the last of the immortals home.

THE END

Short
Stories by Michelle West and Michelle Sagara

The first six stories released are connected
to the Essalieyan Universe of the novels I write for DAW as
Michelle West. Since those are my most asked-for short stories,
those are the stories I wanted to make available first. The rest of
the stories will be released in chronological order from the date
of their first appearance, which are listed in brackets beside the
titles, along with the anthology in which they first appeared. All
of the stories have new introductions (which will probably come
through in the samples if you’ve already read the stories but want
to read those.)

In the Essalieyan universe
: