The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet (43 page)

“Says here, ‘Deep Moor,’ sir.”

“That’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir. You’re welcome.”

“Robot!” mutters N’Doch, as the glass panel slides shut.

“Quite possibly,” Sedou agrees.

N’Doch stretches back against his seat and regards the man/dragon owlishly. “Well, going back to Deep Moor’s all right with me. Might get some answers there. Those witchy ladies know a thing or two. ’Course, we gotta worry about them being okay. Wasn’t only my people the Fire dude was after.” He says it lightly to ward off his shiver. He’d really rather not find any more good women with holes in their foreheads.

“I’d give you answers if I had any,” Sedou growls.

“And you don’t.”

“Don’t sound so dubious.”

“Something passed between you and Fire back at the Rive. And don’t be telling me you were just catching up on old times.”

“It was my sister . . . when we both sensed she was free. It blew his mind, and he couldn’t quite keep it from me. Beyond that, I have innuendo, half-truth, implication, and guesswork. But answers? No.”

“Never mind.” N’Doch slumps back and draws the guitar across his chest like a shield. He’s thinking how like Sedou the dragon’s become, how . . . human. Like the taking on of a human biology has changed her more than just physically. She didn’t used to hold back on him for the sake of his feelings. “Hey, bro,” he calls softly across the chasm between the seat banks. “You gonna need a song any time soon, you think?”

Sedou gives him a long, deep look, the dragon gazing at him through the man’s dark eyes. “Might be, bro. Might be.”

“Now here is an interesting neighborhood,” remarks Djawara suddenly.

N’Doch feels the car slowing. They’re into another district of narrow streets. Narrow and twisty, with twin ruts worn into the paving stones, and dirty water flowing in the
gutters. And animal signs: the occasional manure pile, though none of it looks very recent. N’Doch tries to lower the window beside him, and runs into the first thing about his dream car that doesn’t work. Broken? He somehow doubts it. Probably if he tried the door, he’d get the same result. Is it a trap, or just a safety precaution? He’s just about to air this latest anxiety when the car rounds a particularly tight corner and turns into a circular courtyard, dark and dank, and bounded by high stone walls. At least most of it’s stone. Here and there, N’Doch sees odd patches of what looks like electronic microcircuitry, enlarged a billion times. He squints as the car sweeps past a nearby one. It’s big, taller than he is. Maybe it’s some kind of art, set into the walls.

He’s distracted as the driver pulls around and stops beside the only other vehicle N’Doch has seen since setting foot in the city. He lets out a snort of recognition. The thing is twice the size he remembers, and a whole lot brighter, but he knows what he’s looking at, sure enough.

“This sure ain’t Deep Moor, but hey, check it out! There’s Luther’s old caravan. Looks like he got himself a new paint job!”

When he tries the car door, it works just fine. The driver’s already popped out of his seat to open the door on Sedou’s side. N’Doch wonders idly if the robot will expect a tip. But as soon as they’re all out and standing expectantly on the broad, wet stones paving the yard, the driver tips his cap neatly, climbs back into the limo, and drives off. N’Doch stares after it. He misses the blue leather seats and the soft ride already.

“This way,” Sedou calls. “She’s this way.”

Making a quick inspection tour around the big yellow caravan, N’Doch sees the man/dragon vanishing through a tall stone arch. Its nasty-looking iron grille is partially ajar. Djawara waits at the opening, his calm eyes not entirely able to contain their amazement. Is it what’s inside, or what’s outside, or the contrast between? N’Doch cups the old man’s elbow and escorts him through the gate. He’s getting more than used to walking through strange doorways into unexpected places. This time, he finds a rich green lawn and a cluster of old trees, half-concealing a low-slung dwelling. The house he recognizes, with its big stone
chimney, and some of the outbuildings and barns. But others seem to be missing, and it had been deep winter at Deep Moor when he was there: bleak, leafless, and monochromatic. This symphony of green and bloom and fragrance stops him in his tracks by the gate. He liked the place enough before, but now . . .! All his senses go on overdrive—eyes, ears, nose, bathed in lusciousness. The air is sweet in his lungs, and the touch of the sun on his cheeks is gentle, like a caress. It’s all he can do to keep himself from racing off and rolling in the grass. No wonder the girl always talked like this place was paradise!

Djawara gently jogs him out of his daze. “We’re waited on, I believe.”

There’s a big crowd up by the house, full of people N’Doch recalls, and some he doesn’t. He’s relieved to see Raven and Rose, and most of the women he’d known there, alive and well. He sees Luther and Stoksie and heads their way, not even bothering to ask himself how the hell they got here. He looks for Erde and the Big Guy, but they don’t seem to be around. The real surprise is Gerrasch, who N’Doch thought would never willingly leave his technohaven in the Refuge. He’s got mirrorshades on, and he and Sedou seem to be having some sort of reunion, which is interesting, since N’Doch can’t recall Gerrasch ever having met Water in his brother’s shape before. What’s more interesting, everybody else is watching, with near-breathless anticipation.

“Whazzup?” He eases in between Stoksie and Luther, short and tall, as if he’s left them only yesterday. Fact is, it
could
have been yesterday, for all he can tell.

“Itz her! Itz da One!” Luther is beaming.

“The one? You mean, Air? Where?”

Stoksie nods at Sedou and Gerrasch. “Itz G. He’s gotter in ’im. Or so he sez.”

“In him?” N’Doch knows he can test the truth of this. He can ask Water on the old dragon internet. He can ask Gerrasch, for that matter, guide to guide. But they both look pretty busy, plus he’s even more reluctant than usual. If it’s true, Air will be there, too. A whole new dragon voice to contend with, a whole new variety of invasion. And this one’s the one they’ve gone through all this to find, the one who has, everyone keeps assuring him, all the
answers. He tells himself he oughta let the dragons do their catching up in private anyway.

“How’d she get loose?”

“G diddit. Sumhow.”

Luther’s sigh is soft with admiration and awe. “He tuk her spirit wit’in ’im.”

N’Doch can’t think of anything worse, but he respects Luther enough to keep that irreverence to himself. Besides, Gerrasch is different from the other guides. He’s already half dragon, so maybe it doesn’t bother him as much. “But he’s still . . . he’s still, y’know . . . still Gerrasch?”

“Yah,” Stoksie marvels. “Seems like it.”

“Huh. So where’s Erde and the Big Guy? Looks like everyone else is here, and I wouldn’t think they’d want to be missing this.”

“Gone.” Stoksie shakes his head, then scrapes his hand over its shining baldness. “Gone. G’s not reel happy ’bout dat.”

“You mean they were, but . . . gone where?”

“Doan know fer shur. Dat lady . . .” Stoksie points out Raven, N’Doch’s fantasy woman, who looks more worn and anxious than he’s ever seen her. “She t’inks dey wenta . . . weah izzit, Luta?”

“Da Grove,” Luther intones solemnly.

“Makes sense. The summons. That’s where we were headed.” N’Doch would love to spin out the tale of the sky-blue limo, but he senses this just ain’t the time for it.

“Da reel Grove,” says Luther, grimmer than before.

“So? What’s the problem?”

“Dat wacko preechur iz dere. An’ heeza bad’un, all ri’. I saw ’im.”

“Didja? Fra Guill?” N’Doch is curious. “I ain’t had the pleasure yet.”

“Well,” drawls Stoksie darkly, “I t’ink yu gonna gettit reel soon.”

I
t seems a very long and languid time before the novelty of actual lovemaking wears off, and Fire recalls that he has a war to fight. But though his mind returns to the subject increasingly, he is still easily distracted by a caress or a heated glance. In between, he is content to expound at length about his superior strength and winning strategy, more willing to boast of the dedication and ferocity of his loyal followers than to rush to join them on the field. Paia is bemused by how easily she has conquered. It cannot be her shapely body and her loving alone. She’s not that good at it yet. Observing Fire from as clear-eyed an angle as she can manage, she would swear she detects signs of exhaustion in the slow way he gathers himself at last to return to the fray.

“Well, they will be looking for me to claim the victory. Make a few decorative passes over the battlefield. Incinerate a few prisoners.”

“You won’t!”

“Why not? Think how much it will cheer the priestlings to see their old chief go up in flames.”

She pulls away from him, wrapping the sheet around her shoulders. “Do you plan to carry me with you to this battle?”

“I can hardly leave you here on this barren mountaintop.”

He draws suggestively on the sheet, but Paia holds it fast. “You cannot expect me to war against my own cousin!”

“You won’t be fighting him, I will.”

“But it will be as if I was fighting him.” Perhaps an argument can be her next delaying tactic.

Fire lifts an arm over her shoulder and draws his sharp nails lightly down her back. “You would not fight him to reclaim your exalted status as my priestess? To regain your ancestral home?”

“I hate being a priestess.” She tries to sound prim and disapproving, when all she wants is to press herself against him. “And Leif wants the Citadel for all the Cauldwells, myself included. From there, he can provide help and shelter for all who come to him in need.”

“Very noble,” murmurs Fire into the small of her back. The heat of his breath traces the curve of her hip. “But a waste of valuable and vanishing resources. With so little time left to us, I have no intention of allowing my hard-won luxuries to be shared out among the worthless and inept who can’t find a way to take care of themselves. Death to the weak,” he says, taking her nipple in his mouth.

“But fighting wastes resources, too.”

“Ah, but it results in fewer mouths to feed.”

Paia summons a vastness of will and pushes him away. “Listen, my Fire. Couldn’t you work out some sort of truce? That way bloodshed could be prevented and the resources be conserved. If you swore on your honor as a dragon not to harm anyone . . .”

Fire falls backward on the bed, spread-eagled in a cascade of helpless guffaws. “On my honor?”

“But I’m serious. I could ask my cousin. I’m sure he . . .”

“No.” He looks up at her, his laughter fading. “Come now, beloved. You’re not actually suggesting that I share my palace with a legion of dregs and riffraff? That I live at the sufferance of my former slave?”

“Not a slave! He . . .”

“Subordinate, then! Servant! Stop splitting hairs!”

“The Temple ran smoothly due to my cousin’s inspired management! You’d never have been able to carry it off without him. You should be more grateful!”

“GRATEFUL?” Fire is on his feet and pacing before Paia can blink. “But for me, he’d have starved with the rest of the riffraff! He’s the foulest of traitors! He destroyed the Temple! He betrayed me and all who believed in me!”

She can offer him no denial on that count, and the usual excuses and explanations will only enrage him further. But
Fire seems to have lost his relish for impassioned debate, as if even he senses that his accusations are growing repetitive and stale. Instead of heating up his diatribe against the ex-priest, higher and higher to the point of threats and invective, he slumps and turns away with a hiss of frustration. “Besides, even if Cauldwell did let us live in peace until the end comes, my siblings will be after me soon enough. With the end so near, they’ll never let me rest.”

“They’re well occupied with the search for Air, my Fire.” Paia has seen for herself the other dragons’ capacity for obsession. Though its focus differs radically, it is the match to his own.

But Fire, wandering in the shadows, shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

“What? Why not?”

He turns away again, waiting so long to answer that his reluctance is finally obvious. “My clever sister has found her own way to freedom.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“No. I didn’t.”

Because you’re ashamed
, guesses Paia.
Because now there’s a real possibility you’ve failed. It’s three against one now
. That’s
what’s changed
.

“How did she get out?”

He flicks an impatient hand. “What does it matter?”

And Paia thinks,
His real shame is that he doesn’t know. She’s outwitted him
. “So, then . . .”

“So there’ll be no deals. No truces. What’s the point? It’s all or nothing now.”

“But why?”

“Because!”

“Really, my Fire. You sound like . . .” She can’t find a stinging enough comparison. “Well, you’re being completely unreasonable.”

“And this surprises you?”

“I thought perhaps . . .” She falters, knowing the words will sound foolish.