Changeling (Illustrated) (12 page)

However . . . Could he control whatever he released? A good man had obviously spent a lot of time and energy putting the thing together. Best to have a look around before doing anything else . . . 

He raised the lantern.

Dragons, dragons, dragons . . . Acres of dragons and other fantastic beasts lay all about him, extending far beyond his feeble light. His eyes caught them at another level, also. To each of them extended one strand of the master spell.

He lowered the light. What the hell do you say to a dragon? How do you control one? He shuddered at the thought of releasing any of the slumbering horrors.

Probably wake up hungry, too . . . 

He began to back away.

Clear out. Forget this part of the family heritage. They must have bred tougher Lords of Rondoval in the old days . . . 

As he began to turn away, his attention was caught by a single green filament. Its color was slightly darker than any of the others, and it was also the thickest one in sight, almost twice the size of its mates.
What might it tether?
he wondered.

Suddenly, all the dreamlands he had ever read of or conjured in song, all the fantasy worlds he had ever sculpted of smoke or walked through at bedtime as a child rose before him, and he knew that he could not leave this place without looking upon the prodigy bound by this mighty spell. Turning back, he followed the strand among the massive sleepers, averting his eyes as well as his feet in some instances.

When he reached out to brush the strand with his fingertips, a sound like a crystal bell echoed within his head, “Moonbird . . . ”—constantly fading—and he knew that to be the name of the creature toward which he was headed.

“Moonbird,” he said, fingers still feeling the pulse of the cord.

Lord, I hear, beyond the depths of sleep or life. Shall we range the skies together, as in days gone by?

I am not the lord you knew, and Rondoval has come upon sad times,
he thought back, still brushing the cord.

What matter? So long as there is a lord in Rondoval. You are of the blood?

Yes.

Then call me back from these ghost skies. I’ll bear you where you would.

I am not even sure I know what to feed you . . . 

I’ll manage, never fear.

. . . And then there is the problem of this spell.

Not for one such as
—

Pol halted, for he could go no further. His hand had left the strand awhile back, as it seemed tangled on an overhead ledge. For several moments, he had thought it was a huge mineral formation which confronted him—a vast mound of scaly copper bearing the green patina of age. But it had moved, slightly, as he had watched.

He sucked air between his teeth as he raised the lantern. There, there was the great crested head! How huge those eyes must be when opened! He reached out and touched the neck. Cold, cold as metal. Perhaps nearly as tough.

“
How low must your fires now be, bird of the moon . . . 
” he said.

Back to him came a jumbled vision of clouds and tiny houses, forests tike patches of weeds . . . 

 . . . 
Shall we range the skies together?

The fear was gone, leaving only a great desire to see the huge beast freed.

He moved back to the first place where the strand came within reach again. He touched it as he began to follow it back out.

Patience, father of dragons.
We shall see . . . .

 . . . And kill your enemies.

First things first.

He followed it back to the ball of plaited rainbows near the entrance. He traced its point of entry into the mass and noted each place where it became visible again at the surface. Would it be possible to tease out this one strand? Could he arouse Moonbird without awakening all the others?

He stared for a long while before he moved, and then his first gestures were tentative. Soon, though, his left arm was plunged past the elbow into the glowing sphere, his fingers tracing each twisting of the thick, green strand . . . 

Later, he stood holding it free, its end twisted about his finger. He walked quickly back, to stand regarding the drowsing giant once again.

Awaken now,
he willed, untwining it, releasing it.

The thread drifted away, shriveling. The dragon stirred.

Even bigger than I thought, he decided, staring into the suddenly opened eye which now regarded him. Much bigger . . . 

The mouth opened and closed in a swallowing movement, revealing spike-like ranks of teeth.

Those, too . . . 

He moved nearer.

 . . . Must seem bold for a little longer, establish where we both stand right away . . . 

He reached out and laid his hand upon the broad neck.

I am Pol Detson, Lord of Rondoval until further notice,
he tried to communicate.

The giant head was raised, turned, the mouth opened . . . Suddenly, the tongue shot forward, licking him with a surface the texture of a file, knocking him backwards.

 . . . 
Master!

He recovered himself, dodged a second caress of the tongue and patted the neck again.

Contain yourself, Moonbird! I am
—
soft.

Sometimes I forget.

The dragon spread its wings and lowered them, drew itself upright, raised and lowered its head, nuzzled him.

Come, mount my back and let us fly!

Where?

Out the old tunnel, to view the world.

Pol hesitated, his courage ebbing.

 . . . But if I don’t do it now, I never will, he decided. I know that. Whereas if I do, I may be able to do it again one day. And I may need to . . . 

A
moment,
he communicated, looking for the easiest way up.

Moonbird lowered his head fully and extended his neck.

Come.

Pol mounted, located what he hoped was a traditional dragon rider’s position, above the shoulders, at the widening base of the neck. He clung with his legs and his arms. Behind him, he heard the vanes stir.

I sense that you play a musical instrument,
Moonbird began, as they moved forward (To distract him? No—too sophisticated a concept). You
must bring it next time and play to me as we fly, for I love music.

That might be novel.

They sprang from the ground and Moonbird immediately located a draft of air which they followed into a broader, higher part of the cavern. The light from the lantern Pol had left on the ground dwindled quickly, and they flew through an absolute darkness for what seemed a long while.

Suddenly, with a rush of cool air, there were stars all about them. A moment later, surprising himself, Pol began to sing.

XIII
.

Mark rolled out of his bed, drew the purple dressing gown about his shoulders and sat clutching his head, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

How long had it been
—
four, five, six days?
—
since the robo-surgeon had worked him over?

He raised his head. The room was dark. The thing which protruded from his left eye socket hummed. Finally, it grew silent and he had vision on that side.

He rose and crossed the meticulously well-kept chamber—all metal and plastic and glass—and regarded himself in the mirror above the washstand. He tapped lightly with his fingertips about the perimeter of the lens case, where it joined his brow and cheekbone.

 . . . Still too tender.
Impair efficiency to take too many drugs, but I’ll need some more to be able to think at all . . . 

He withdrew a container of tablets from a drawer in the stand, gulped two and proceeded to wash and shave without turning on a light.

 . . . It does have some advantages, though, especially if you get turned around this way. Must be the middle of the night . . . 

He drew on a pair of brown trousers with many pockets, a green sweater, a pair of boots. He opened the rear door of his apartment and stepped out onto the terrace. His personal flier stood on the pad—delta-winged, compact, glassy and light. Mechanical things rose and fell in the distance, some only visible in his left field of vision. He inhaled the fragrance of imported plants, turned, crossed to an elevator hatch, dropped three levels to a footbridge leading across the road. He crossed there, heading for the surveillance center in the lower, adjacent building.

One of the small, gnarled men, clad in a brown and black uniform, sat before a bank of glowing screens. Whether he actually watched any of them was something Mark could not tell from the rear—one of the reasons he disliked using people except in situations such as this where he had no choice.

As he approached, his optic prosthesis hummed, its lens becoming a greenish color as it adjusted to the lighting. The man straightened in his chair.

“Good evening sir,” he said, not turning away from the screens.

 . . . Damned sharp senses these fellows have.

“Anything to report?”

“Yes, sir. Two surveillance birds are missing.”

“Missing? Where?”

“The village, your own—”

“What happened to them?”

“Don’t know, sir. They just suddenly weren’t there anymore.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A little over three hours ago, sir.”

“Didn’t you try to maneuver any of the others to get a look at what was happening?”

“It was too sudden, sir.”

“In other words, nothing was done. Why wasn’t I notified immediately?”

“You had left orders not to be disturbed, sir.”

“Yes . . . I know. What do you make of it?”

“No idea, sir.”

“It has to be a malfunction of some sort. Pull back the others in that area for complete inspections. Send out fresh ones. Wait!”

He moved nearer and studied the appropriate screens.

“Any activity in the village?”

“None, sir.”

“The girl has not been out of her house?”

“No, sir. It has been dark for hours.”

“I think I may pick her up tomorrow. It depends on how I feel. Plan B, three birds—two for safety escort. See that they’re standing ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

The small man stole a glance at him.

“I must say, sir. The new eye-thing is most attractive.”

“Oh? Really? Thank you,” he mumbled, then turned and left.

What had he been thinking? The pills must be starting to work . . . . He wouldn’t be in shape by tomorrow. Wait another day. Should he go back and countermand that last order? No. Let it stand. Let it stand . . . .

He wandered down to spot-check a factory, his eye humming its way to yellow.

*  *  *

Lantern-swinging shadows bouncing from his rapid step, the small man passed along the maze of tunnels, occasionally pausing to listen and to peer about abrupt corners. Usually, when he halted, he also shuddered.

It might almost have been easier without the lantern, he thought, back there. And that slab . . . He did not remember that broken slab at the cave mouth.

He thought back upon the scene he had witnessed immediately after awakening. The man acting almost as if he were talking with that monster, then mounting it and flying off, fortunately leaving his lantern behind. Who could it have been, and what the circumstances?

He turned right at the next branching, remembering his way. There seemed to be no sounds, other than those of his own making. Rather peculiar, in the aftermath of such a battle . . . 

When he finally reached the foot of the huge stair, he left the lantern. He moved soundlessly through the darkness, toward some small illumination above. When his eyes just cleared the top step, he halted and surveyed the hall.

“How long have I slept?” he asked of, perhaps, the tattered tapestry.

But he did not wait for a reply.

*  *  *

As the sun pinked the eastern corner of the sky, Moonbird descended slowly to land upon the last steady tower of Rondoval. Pol dismounted and slapped him upon the shoulder.