The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet (4 page)

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.”

Stoksie looks dubious.

“Later, dude, okay?” N’Doch watches Cauldwell ease a half step closer to the big dragon. “Later, I’ll sing you about elephants.”

The girl strays to the Librarian’s side. He feels like he’s being force-fed the entire world’s impatience and anxiety. He sends Erde easeful messages. If he could reach his dragon, he’d send her some, too. Cauldwell’s absolute trust must be won, or the forces for good will be a force divided.

Cauldwell lets his hand slide across the waist-high ivory curl of claw, broader than his own muscular thigh. “Is this what it was like?” he asks Paia, “With . . . him?”

Paia’s choked laugh is the most rueful sound the Librarian has ever heard. “Oh, no, cousin. Oh, no. No. Not at all.”

Cauldwell takes a breath, then lifts his head and looks the dragon in the eye: a tall, golden man caught in a benign and golden stare. Benign, but awe-inspiring. Even the Librarian finds it so. Cauldwell licks his lips. “Let’s see . . . you must be . . .”

“He is Lord Earth.” Erde has moved up on his other side. Paia steps back, into the soldier’s waiting embrace. They move in concert, these dragon guides, the Librarian muses, forgetting for a moment that he is one of them.

“Earth.” Cauldwell cannot tear his gaze away. “Ah. Yours?”

The girl wags her singed curls faintly. “Say rather, I am his. His servant, and guide in the world of men. As your cousin is Lord Fire’s, only . . .”

“Only. Only?”

“It’s my fault,” murmurs Paia from behind. “It must be. Yet Earth tells me otherwise. He says I am meant to help the Go . . . um, that is, Fire . . . see the error of his ways.”

Cauldwell’s mouth twists. “He’ll only see what’s in his own interest.”

The Librarian agrees. He worries that Earth’s assessment is too generous. The dysfunction seems profound, and the dragon in question entirely intractable.

“Earth,” repeats Cauldwell. His hand rests more easily on the dragon’s claw. “Earth and . . .?”

“Water,” N’Doch supplies.

As Cauldwell turns, Water settles her form still further. The Librarian watches closely. When she’s done settling, he silently applauds her cleverness. She’s become a lovely, swan-necked blue dragon, cloaked in velvet like a seal, and no bigger than one of the Tinker mules that’s whickering greetings from the far corners of the cavern. A phrase comes to his mind, from another former life:
good cop, bad cop
. The Librarian grins. Next to her looming, mountainous, and terrifying brother, Water is just the cutest little dragon you ever did see.

Luther’s murmur is equal parts awe and delight. “Sheez a shape-shiftah, Leif. Ain’dat sumting?”

“It’s something, all right.”

“We should . . .” Erde urges. “Isn’t it time to . . .?”

Her anxiety brims over and swirls around the Librarian like surf. This time, he agrees. With Fire on the rampage who knows where, laying waste to who knows which of their near and dear, it’s high time they got moving. He’s lingered only to savor the luxury of someone else doing the talking for him. Three someones, his fellow guides, who can tap directly into his image-driven brain and translate for him. Except about the machines. That’s beyond all understanding. The machines and his connection to them are his contribution to the four-way destiny. That much, at least, he is sure of, among so little else.

N’Doch and Erde snatch a brief reunion with Stoksie, asking after the rest of Blind Rachel, his Tinker crew. Seven out of ten of the local crews made it into the Refuge before Fire began torching the countryside. The Librarian worries about the fate of the other three.

He waves his arms. “We should. Now. The Library.”

N’Doch grabs Leif Cauldwell’s elbow familiarly. “Time to go to work, chief. See if the computers can tell us what Fire’s up to.”

Cauldwell eases free of the younger man’s grip. “Leif. Call me Leif. There are no chiefs around here.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever.” N’Doch’s round ebony face is open and guileless. He scuffs one foot along the polished stone floor. “But it’s gonna make such a cool rhyming lyric when I get to writing a song about you.”

Cauldwell stares at him.

“N’Doch . . .” Erde warns.

Cauldwell takes in the girl’s prim and disapproving frown, makes a quick assessment and lets his testiness fade. “Yeah? Can’t wait to hear it.” He turns away to the Librarian. “Who do we need downstairs?”

“All. All.”

N’Doch adds, “Everyone who can fit. All of us and all of you . . . y’know, your non-chiefs.”

Erde’s glower deepens. “He will not behave. Do not expect it.”

But Cauldwell is already in motion, heading off into
darkness, along a path among the crowded wagons. He has no problem with giving orders. “Luther, Stoksie, you’re with us. Where’s Ysa? And Stanze? We’ll need Constanze.” He halts, scanning the crowd.

Luther joins him, smiling. “Sheez ovah deah, Leif. Lookit dat, willya?”

Cauldwell’s wife Constanze, with their little daughter clasped in her arms, trails a pack of children out of the throng, heading straight for the brown dragon’s tall snout, which he’s cushioned comfortably on crossed forepaws in order to greet them. Cauldwell starts. “Stanze . . .!”

“S’okay, Leif.” Luther restrains him with a raised palm. “S’awri’. We shudn’t teach ’em all owah feahs, ri’?”

“But . . .”

“But nuttin, Leif. Look fer yerself.”

One of the smallest children is already snuggled against the dragon’s rough jaw. Earth is impressive, but he is not lovely like his sister. The Librarian admits that he’s seen prettier horned toads. But the child’s eyes are only adoring. Constanze shoots a helpless glance in her husband’s direction. The child in her grasp struggles for freedom. She shrugs and sets the girl down beside the dragon’s claws. The girl crows delightedly and wraps her arms around the nearest pillar of ivory. Constanze backs away, bemused, then with another shrug, she turns and comes toward Cauldwell. The Librarian notes that the water dragon has stealthily sidestepped out of child-range.

Beside him, N’Doch chuckles dryly. “They’ll leave her alone. She’s not talking to ’em like he is. He’s still a kid despite his size, but she came into the world a grown-up. I sang her into kid-form once. My little brother. Died when he was five. Don’t think she liked it much.”

Cauldwell’s arm slides automatically around Constanze’s waist. They watch their little girl slipping and sliding as she tries to climb the dragon’s claw. “Are we just going to leave them alone together?” Cauldwell asks.

Constanze leans into his side. “She told me, distinctly and even grammatically, that the dragon had assured her he wasn’t eating children today.”

“She said that? What an imagination!”

“No. I got the impression she was relaying what he actually said. All the children say he’s talking to them.”

“Really?” Cauldwell looks to the Librarian in alarm. “Is that possible?”

“Possible. Yes.”

“Something you taught them? By the One, what are we raising?”

“The future,” says the Librarian before he’s even thought it over. And it’s true that what the children have become is as much his fault as anyone’s. He’s been their tutor and their mascot. It’s his dark den that’s their favorite place of play. If he himself is not entirely human, how can he teach the children to be?