“HAN.”
Han turned his face away, not wanting this particular grief witnessed even though Thurlock surely already knew. When he could speak without having a sob escape, he said, “Thurlock, sir.”
Thurlock sat on the muddy bank, with no care for his robes or his old bones, neither too far from Han nor too close.
“I don’t want to talk,” Han said.
“I don’t need to read your mind to see that, my friend,” Thurlock answered. “But I think it would be more honest for you to admit you don’t want to think. But you will anyway, and it’s going to lead you into trouble—already has, I’m quite sure. So I thought I’d make myself available if you care to bounce any ideas off me, as things progress.”
It would be pointless to try to argue with the wizard; Han never won, and in any case, he was right. As ridiculous as Han knew his thinking was, he couldn’t keep it from snowballing along. At that moment it seemed like further evidence that he didn’t know himself at all, and therefore he was not to be trusted.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the wizard wave his hand, and then a multicolored blanket woven for Han by Rosishan as a birthday present years ago appeared in the wizard’s big, age-spotted hands.
“Take your feet out of the water, Han, you’re freezing. Here, wrap up in this and I’ll fix you some hot coffee.”
Surprised to see that, indeed, a heavy cloud had covered the sun and most of the sky in the last few moments, he did as Thurlock instructed, pulling his cold feet out of the chilling water.
“Come up here away from the stream,” Thurlock said, by now carrying a large mug of hot coffee apparently just then summoned into existence.
Han joined the old man on an ancient fallen log where the trees sheltered them from the surprising wind. He wrapped the blanket around his mostly bare chest, and then accepted the coffee, tested it for temperature, and swallowed half the mug in one go. It warmed him inside, but he wasn’t ready to allow himself to feel comforted just yet.
“I’d encourage you to talk to me, Han.”
“Are you planning to force me if I don’t?”
“Han, we’ve had this discussion before. I certainly could do that. At the moment I don’t think I will, because I know you, young man, and something is bothering you that you can’t answer without help. I’d love to provide that help, if you’d let me, and with so much going on, I think now is better than later. Don’t you?”
Han said nothing for some time, though he knew he would talk once he was ready. During the wait, he listened to the wind rustle the leaves, and to Thurlock’s bones creaking, and to a field mouse nearby frantically searching for the nest she’d left her babies in, though she obviously knew right where it was. He came to the stark truth that his searching for the right thing to say was as pointless as the little four-legged’s panic, and so he spoke.
“The dragon.”
“Yes.”
“Why, Thurlock? It should have been Lohen.”
“Honestly, Han? Was there ever anything about Lohen that suggested a dragon nature?”
Han’s lip quirked in a one-sided smile at the thought. Calm, cool, gentle, deadly, loving, sorrowful Lohen, a dragon? No.
“It’s in your nature,” Thurlock added. “You’ve known that since you were a small boy. And though you’ve tried to deny it, you’ve always known this could happen—probably must happen. Do you care to talk about what’s really bothering you?”
Han swallowed the rest of his coffee, dropped the mug onto the soft leaf mold on the forest floor, stood and, pulling the blanket around hunched shoulders, went to stand at the stream’s edge again. Even with his back to the wizard, his throat was so tight it hurt to speak, but he forced the words. “My family. The house. The stead. Thurlock—did I burn them?”
He was surprised to hear Thurlock gasp in surprise. Apparently, he’d done a very good job of fooling the wizard into thinking he had no such fears—better than the job he’d done fooling himself, even.
“By Behl’s sweet breath, Han. How long have you held this fear bottled up? Ach! Never mind. The answer to that question is obvious. The answer to your question, dearest Han, is no. No, you did not do that.”
Han stood where he was, unable to make himself turn to face Thurlock, unable to believe his assurances, unable to speak. He heard Thurlock approach and then, for the first time in many years, felt the old man’s strong arm wrap around his shoulders and the comforting squeeze of his big hand. He felt like he’d changed suddenly back into the young, frightened boy he’d been when Lohen had first brought him to Thurlock, not knowing how to care for him, and the wizard had taken him in.
“Listen to me, Han. First, the dragon games you used to play as a boy, they were just that—games, imaginings, make-believe. Surely, your dragon came out to play at those games with you, but they were the same kind of pretending all children do, like a rehearsal for being grown-up. There was nothing real about the flights over the stead you used to babble on about to anyone who would listen. Don’t look at me like that, Han. It’s true, you were quite a babbler as a young child.”
Han smiled a little, trying to see himself that way. But he wasn’t reassured, and the smile fell away almost instantly.
“I know your memory of those years is vague, and I’ll wager you have at times nearly convinced yourself of your guilt. It may be difficult for you to accept your innocence simply on my word, so I’ll offer this as well: Think on the nature of your dragon, Han. All through your games, was the dragon ever ruthless or cruel? The answer is no, and the reason is because the dragon is you, and cruelty is not in your nature. I know this because I’m a wizard, but mostly I know this because I’ve spent two centuries in your company.”
Thurlock’s words helped enough that Han’s embarrassing need to sob retreated, but he wasn’t totally convinced. “But, Thurlock, what if sometimes—or even just that one time—the dragon in me did come out into the world, became physical? Maybe…. Could I have done it by accident? I was young and the dragon’s fire—”
“Wait a moment, Han. I’ve just realized the problem. You don’t remember what you saw that day, do you? Or at least you’ve never let the memory come to mind?”
Nail on the head and all that, Han thought, because of course what Thurlock had said was absolutely true. Thurlock didn’t seem to be waiting for an answer, though, so Han remained silent and waited. The old man took a few steps away and then paced back, scratched his beard thoughtfully, mumbled to himself. “Yes, I see,” he said at last, as if answering somebody only he could see or hear. “Well, Han, it’s like this. I can, if you want, give those memories back to you, but sometimes when we bury things it’s because they’re better left alone. If you’ll believe my word, there’s no need for you to endure that. I’ll leave it to you to decide.”
Han didn’t know what he would decide in the end, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want to relive anything “better left alone” if he could avoid it. “For now,” he said, “just tell me.”
“Your family, Han… they were not just burned. They were tortured. They were tormented and abused in several very sick but creative ways. You, a beloved and loving child, could not have conceived of these punishments, dragon or no. It’s not possible that you were responsible. What is possible, something I have long pondered, is that your dragon saved you—took you away from the home at the critical moment so that you escaped death.”
Han went back to the fallen log and seated himself again. Thurlock sat next to him, content to wait quietly for Han to arrive wherever his thoughts took him.
Finally Han lifted his gaze to Thurlock’s. “Are my eyes still different?”
Thurlock nodded. “I’m afraid the color change will likely be permanent, though the slitted pupil seems to fade within minutes after your return.”
“Oh! I hadn’t seen that part. It must look… scary.”
“It is odd, I’ll admit.”
Han actually laughed at that, but then he grew serious again. “Do you think the change in my eyes… well, I mean, will the rest of me change too? Do you think I’ll turn into the dragon for real?”
“Hm. I don’t think so, Han. We do know that this is a trait you’ve inherited, and though it hasn’t surfaced—that we know of—in a couple of generations, it was at one time at least common enough not to be extraordinary. As you know, I’ve been around since before dirt, and actually you are not the first Drakhonic dragon-kin I’ve met. Your ancestors were neither monsters nor shifters, Han. As I understand it, your dragon is a part of your consciousness—or maybe your subconscious is more accurate.”
“Except my eyes—”
“Yes, yes. Except your eyes. It’s quite a stunning coloration by the way. But the bottom line is, no, Han. I truthfully don’t think you’re on your way to becoming a smart but scaly reptile, and I don’t believe you will ever even shift when you’re in the everyday waking world, fully conscious. The dragon, I think, is meant to help with what lies beneath, so to speak.”
Han sighed, nodded. “Okay,” he said, and then, using Earth slang, “Well, he—the dragon—was pretty damn badass today. I suppose he could be useful.”
Thurlock’s stomach rumbled, and by unspoken consent, they began walking back toward the Sisterhold, Han feeling easy in Thurlock’s company, as he had for so long. “And somehow, my leg got healed.”
“Interesting,” Thurlock said, and they walked on.
As they came near his small house, Han turned his mind back to the many items of business waiting to be dealt with. He asked, “Do you want to know about the bodies, now, sir?”
“Go get properly dressed, Han. There’s an old maxim well known among wizards of worth: supper first, bad news and strange bodies later. We’ve missed dinner at the Hold, so let’s eat at Chez Thurlock. We’ll talk when we can be heard over my stomach grumbling.”