Fire: Tales of Elemental Spirits (39 page)

And landed in a field almost as enormous as the one we'd set off from, except that it looked like a field of trolls when the sun has just come up. There were a couple dozen dragons and at least a hundred people, but they were all frozen, like trolls in sunlight, staring up—

At us, twirling down.

Hereyta landed as gently as a butterfly.

And Arac
roiled
forward—trained working dragons mostly move slowly on land, careful of all the little squishy humans that are likely to be nearby—and thudded against Hereyta's side in what I think was a friendly tap, like you might thump someone on the back and say, ʺWell done!ʺ—but it just about shattered our bones, I think, Dag's and mine and Sippy's, or at least it made me feel even more fragile and crumbly than I'd already been feeling, since the fragile crumbly feeling had started when I'd seen the nothingness breaking up, back in the hot red murk. I felt like a piece of overdone toast. The thump also knocked us an alarming several arms'-length to one side, but Hereyta just twitched her head like keeping people on her nose was something she'd been doing forever, and we jolted back again.

Hereyta made a kind of low purring grunt, which was either ʺit was nothingʺ or possibly ʺI have no idea,ʺ which would have made at least two of us, or maybe it was something else entirely, like, ʺbe careful, you clumsy oaf.ʺ Setyep, still gallantly hanging on to Arac's saddle, suddenly shouted something I didn't catch—it sounded like one of those old ritual phrases Academy cadets have to learn—but it must have meant something like ʺcheer nowʺ because everybody, and I mean everybody, started cheering like they'd gone mad. Even Fistagh and his girl. I saw them. And maybe they had all gone mad. After all, everyone knows a dragon needs all three eyes to get in and out of the Firespace, and it probably needs them to navigate around inside it too.

I think they put me to bed right after that. It was kind of embarrassing. I'm more or less used to being small, ugly and stupid, but I've kind of imagined I'm fairly tough. But I slept all the way through the rest of that day and halfway into the next.

I didn't know where I was when I woke up. I'd never seen it before. But there was a familiar weight on my feet which, when I looked at it, was indeed Sippy and not an impostor, and then I looked a little farther and discovered Setyep sitting tipped back in a chair, reading something. He looked up when I moved and put the book down. He didn't waste words. ʺHungry?ʺ he said.

The water rushed into my mouth so fast I could barely say yes. He had a basket of rolls and a ewer of water next to him, which he shifted to the table at the head of my bed, and then he stuck his head out the door of the strange room I was in and shouted, ʺHe's awake! Bring supplies!ʺ

I don't remember much of the next hour or so either. I was too busy eating. (Then someone had to tell me where the loo was, and then I came back and ate some more.) When I could finally think of something besides food again there were only a few people left in the room, although I had some memory of a lot more people coming in and being forced back out again, protesting, and the door being not only closed but bolted behind them.

By that time I'd noticed that the room was a kind of small dormitory although mine was the only occupied bed, so there was room for everyone who was still there, plus Sippy weaving through the chairs scrounging for crumbs and attention (in that order). Dag was there (who'd been the first through the door when Setyep shouted and almost broke some already-sore-from-bouncing-around-on-a-dragon bones when he hugged me) and Setyep and Eled. The one I didn't know was the old guy from breakfast in the food halls two (three?) days ago—the one who'd wanted something for his aching shoulder.
Zedak
-something Something. I couldn't remember his name either. Lormon? Ormlo? I hadn't noticed him coming in or sitting down. (I was
really
hungry.)

I was seeing him up close for the first time—or anyway I was looking for the first time. I'd been kind of preoccupied with other things that time in the food halls. His white hair had the occasional black thread running through it, and the wrinkles on his face were so deep, some of them, you could've planted corn in them. The person-in-authority aura was worse close up, like sitting too close to the fire, and having him staring at you from only a few handspans away was a little like being pricked with the end of a very sharp dagger. I had to restrain myself from jumping to attention. Or running away. But I wasn't going to do either one. All I could think of, now, after what had just happened, and still feeling as wobbly as a convalescent, was, he was one of the people responsible for letting Hereyta's name go on the First Flight list. I was just as bad as Dag. Once I'd met Hereyta I'd probably always been as bad as Dag but it had
solidified
after what we'd been through. I knew I didn't have the courage to tell him what I thought about him for that, but I could at least try, I don't know, to stare back.

He was sitting down but he sat just as straight as he stood, as if he had a broomstick up the back of his coat; and those big square shoulders hadn't sagged at all over the years he'd been carrying the world on them. Or maybe that was just the most comfortable position for him. I wondered if the delor leaf had helped.

In almost any other situation he'd have scared me witless before he said anything but . . . we'd done something, you know? Dag and me and Sippy and Hereyta. The Academy—who at the moment was this guy—had tried to do something horrible to Hereyta, and we hadn't let them. Rot them. Rot them all. See if I cared. I even had the cheek to ignore him long enough to ask Dag, ʺHow's Hereyta?ʺ

ʺShe's great,ʺ he said, and I thought I saw something of my feelings in his face too. ʺShe's not even stiff.ʺ I risked a quick look at the old guy, and he was looking just a little amused. A little ironic maybe. Even a little guilty? No, I was imagining that. Authority stays in charge by never feeling guilty. Although when I say things like that at home my dad says wait till I have kids of my own.

There was a general air of barely suppressed frenzied impatience which began to make itself felt even in my still-half-zonked state. I was still in my clothes from First Flight—yuck—I had Sippy drool down my front and dragon dust and oil over most of the rest of me—next thing was a bath—but at least it meant I could sit in a chair too and pretend I was a part of the group. As long as no one asked me anything and I had to try to answer sanely. Like, ʺWhat the
hells
did you think you were doing???ʺ The kind of authority that had kept Dag in a classroom for a year and made him think about six hundred forms of correct address doesn't like you doing stuff you shouldn't, even when it works. Maybe particularly when it works.

Although I didn't like this old guy looking amused.

ʺThere will be a council meeting about First Flight later,ʺ he said. ʺBut I thought a few of you—especially Dag and Ern as the most closely involved—might like the, er, simple version first. There will probably be a bit of an uproar at the meeting.ʺ He paused and looked thoughtful. And not at all amused.

ʺThe story goes back a long way. Most of it will be familiar to you from your studies—Ern, you can get Dag to tell you anything you want to know, or Eled, who knows more of the history of this place than I do.ʺ He flicked a glance over Dag and Eled and I was startled—no, shaken—by the affectionate look on his face. He almost looked like my dad, trying to explain about authority and guilt. But he was talking again: ʺThe Academy was founded on certain principles; the invisible structure of our Academy is based on these principles and they may not be broken.ʺ

He paused. Into the silence Eled said, ʺIntinuyun.ʺ Dag shifted in his chair and Setyep sighed.

The old guy nodded and waited, looking at Eled expectantly. You could imagine this guy standing in classrooms in front of generations of cadets, squeezing stuff they didn't think they knew out of them. Ralas did the same thing to me. Some days I felt like an old dishrag.

Eled said reluctantly, ʺIntinuyun broke one of its founding principles. Their Commander wanted his own choice to succeed him as Commander, not the Seers' choice. The Commander won out. But his successor died in a freak accident less than two years after he took over, and when the Seers tried to read for the next Commander, the signs only gave them nonsense. Intinuyun was disbanded about a year after that.ʺ

The old guy nodded. ʺOne of every academy's principles is that dragons and cadets are matched for First Flight by augury and token, although exactly how this is done varies a little from academy to academy. Ours are called up and laid out very carefully, exactly and secretly every year by our Seers. Although most of our dragonmasters are almost half Seer themselves; those in charge of training cadets have to have a gift for deciding which cadets will learn most from which dragons, before we even begin trying to teach the cadets how to watch and listen and respond to their dragons.

ʺEven those of us not directly involved in the practical lessons follow this progress very closely, and when the First Flight lots are drawn and our Seers read the signs, we usually know what they will tell us. Sometimes there are surprises. But in the history of the Academy—possibly in the history of all the academies—so far as we know, no one has ever had quite such a surprise as this year when we were told—nay, ordered—that Hereyta was to Fly, and that Dag was to partner her.

ʺI know you, Dag, have held me personally responsible.ʺ

Dag scowled but didn't deny it. Dag held
him
personally responsible? Then who was he?

ʺAnd if it's any comfort to you—which it probably isn't—I haven't had a good night's sleep since the drawing. I've looked for ways out—gods know I've looked for any possible way out—and there was none. I know Carn, who flew with Hereyta on the journey when she lost her eye; I had partnered her a few times myself, and thought she was the best dragon I ever worked with. I wished I was as lucky as Carn, who Flew with her so much oftener.ʺ

He sounded almost human when he said ʺI wished I was as lucky as Carn.ʺ That's the sort of thing an ordinary person might say.

ʺCarn stopped Flying when Hereyta did; the official reason was the severity of his wounds, but as I say, I know Carn. That wouldn't have stopped him. They might have invalided him out, but he wouldn't have quit. But he told me he didn't have the heart for it any more: not when the best dragon he'd ever known had crippled herself saving his life.

ʺShe's produced some brilliant babies in the years since she stopped Flying and I swear that the cadets who've worked with her leave here with a better understanding of dragon-nature than any of the others. I've wanted to feel that this was a good use of her talents—but dragons were made to Fly. Other than Hereyta, all the other Academy dragons alternate a few years here and a few years outside, Flying with experienced riders, doing what they do. Hereyta's been here almost twenty years, either raising babies—or raising cadets. And she's not so old that if she had three eyes she couldn't still Fly—there's no strain on her wing in the Firespace.

ʺI admit that for all those sleepless nights since the First Flight auguries were read out I've been harbouring a small terrible absurd hope that maybe there was an answer in—in what you've called cruelty, haven't you, Dag. In the apparent cruelty of sending Hereyta on a Flight she cannot make. That maybe a two-eyed dragon can find the way into the Firespace. I got a lot of reading done all those nights I didn't sleep, and in one—just one—old tale there was a reference to a dragon who'd lost an eye, who still Flew. But it was only one, and it wasn't even a history, but a ballad. Poets will say anything if it makes a good story.ʺ

ʺWhich one?ʺ said Dag, as if the words were torn out of him. I was sure he should have said ʺsir.ʺ The old guy was definitely a ʺsirʺ kind of guy. What was the title he'd used in the food hall?

ʺ
Erzaglia and Sorabulyar,
ʺ the old guy said. ʺIt's in the Old Library; I'll give you a pass if you want to read it.ʺ

I didn't mean to move, I was just so startled. Then I was even more startled when everyone turned and looked at me. And I'd been relieved when the old guy had stopped staring at me.

ʺErn?ʺ said the old guy. I didn't like the way he said it. It wasn't unfriendly, but it had that interested, open-ended sound, like
Ern?
was only the beginning.

ʺIt's just I know that story. A little,ʺ I said. ʺIf it's the same one.ʺ The one I'd been trying to remember enough of to ask Eled about. I was thinking:
Erzaglia and Sorabulyar,
gods have mercy. No wonder I couldn't remember the title.

ʺIndeed,ʺ said the old guy, sounding even more interested. ʺAnd how do you happen to know it?ʺ