Prologue

IT WAS a memory that sparkled with life in the deeps of the mountain. The refrains rang like chimes as the draconae sang the ancient memories, keeping them strong and intact. It was a memory of days long departed, of a time before their imprisonment. Without such memories, the draconae would surely have withered and died. The crafting of the images was their only remaining defense against the Enemy's sorceries, against the darkness that sought to control this place of power; and so the draconae sang the memories ceaselessly, preserving that which was beautiful and good in the history of the realm.

At this moment, a handful of draconae were gathered near the fire at the heart of the mountain. They sang in a soft choir:

 

Suns sunk low, moons risen high,

The joining ones spiral in a deepening sky

Creating fronds of living pearl,

Living glass where dreams may swirl,

In a barren vale where life ebbed low

Until the mountain's breath might blow . . .

 

As the draconae sang, motionless except for the quivering of their wings of glass, the image formed like a perfect crystal in the air:

Two dragons in flight—the dracona Clearsong, her wings shining of amber and sapphire and her eyes of golden flame, and her mate FlareTip, a male of pewter scales and red-tipped wings. The memory caught them over a vale of stone and parched earth, under a sky of brooding twilight. They sang and flew, surveying the vale that was soon to be transformed.

Their flight was a dance, their song a throaty hum. Their voices floated in the wind, and the wind flowed over their wings, as they banked and soared in unison. Their eyes shone golden and crimson, and their gazes joined as they flew, not touching and yet spiraling downward as one into the vale. It was a dance of weaving, a crafting-dance upon the currents of the air, but reaching down into the underrealm, as well—a spinning of threads of power.

Below them, the land was changing.

Light glimmered through cracks in the rocks, a light that seemed to seep out as though a sun lay deep within the rock of the vale. It was the light of the Dream Mountain, streaming out of the underrealm. The dragons were creating, and yet not by their own power. Wielding the power of the mountain, coaxed here through the underrealm, they were weaving the threads that would nurture a new creation.

The cracks in the rock widened and the light blossomed. It grew in richness and color as it touched the barren rocks, splintering into hues of crimson and gold and emerald and amethyst. Everywhere, it blurred the angularity of the surfaces, until shape itself slowly disappeared in the radiance. Splinters of color burst into flame here, and pulsing beads of light there. As the crafting grew, the light billowed upward until even the air overhead seemed shot through with living flame.

The dragons blew their own fire in joyful chorus. Even in flight, they stroked at the threads of the underrealm. They spun and wove, dancing in midair, wingtip-to-wing-tip; and beneath them flowers and shrubs and lantern-trees emerged in the bathing light.

When it was done, the light faded away as quickly as it had come.

The dragons circled over the new garden and landed. The light was receding into the rock; but it left behind a treasure trove of living color, plantlife sparkling and blushing. Even the rock seemed alive, charged by the radiance of the underrealm.

The two dragons furled their wings and surveyed the crafting. They found stout trees glimmering with fire-crystal, and translucent broadleafed bushes, and lantern-trees with slender arching branches tipped with the very first ruby-colored lanterns. Here were tiny spikes of lumenis, and there shrubs made of gossamer, twinkling with starlight. It was indeed a garden, truly garkkondoh, fully dragon, and alive with magic—a perfect place for their hearts to dwell, a place to bring the fledglings soon to hatch in the Dream Mountain. . . .

 

And so created

A garden of light

A thing of life

A gathering of stars

Against the night . . .

 

whispered the draconae choir, as the image grew still and garkkondoh, as it etched itself clear and shining in the memory of those who tended the Dream Mountain. Clearsong and FlareTip were long gone from the outer world now—their spirits lofted in death to the soulfires of the Final Dream Mountain—but their song and their creation would never be gone.

Not as long as the draconae sang their creation and kept the memory alive. Not as long as they denied the Enemy what he most wanted: power over their hearts and minds and souls. Not as long as they remained faithful in their wielding of the Dream Mountain, whatever the cost might be, now and forever.