49
Hyam walked to where a clutch of windswept pines formed a living canopy. They were angled against ocean storms that did not blow this day. Hyam’s shirt buttons were encrusted with salt and old grime and opened reluctantly. He drew out the chain, gripped the crystal pipe, and blew.
The shadows between the wizened trunks solidified and became a portal that opened into a tunnel of living green. Elven guards stepped out, saluted Hyam, and signaled him to wait. Moments later they were joined by Darwain and his queen.
The Elven ruler demanded, “What news?”
“Sire, the Milantian foes of Alyss have been vanquished. More than that must wait. How is Joelle?”
“She lives.” Darwain’s gaze widened as the dragon poked his head through the branches overhead. “Legends upon legends!”
“These are our allies, and they are dying,” Hyam said, pushing his own heartache aside. “And this too is the Milantians’ work.”
Darwain was nodding agreement before Hyam finished explaining. “This we can do. Who will speak to the shepherds of Olom?”
Hyam gestured to his friend. But Selim did not step forward. Hyam turned to discover him staring at the newcomers in genuine fear. He stepped back, gripped Selim’s arm, and said, “These are friends.”
Selim remained planted in the earth, rigid as iron.
Hyam explained to the Elves, “Majesty, this is Selim, merchant of Olom. His family was formerly traders of Alyss. He is the last of Ethrin’s line, and the man responsible for our having survived the yellow realm.”
Darwain offered a regal salute. “Then we welcome you as the ally you are.”
Selim did not move. “Forbidden,” he croaked. “Banished. Forsaken.”
“Already a thousand years of edicts have been demolished,” Darwain replied. “Swept away by the return of our foes.”
When Selim stayed where he was, Darwain’s wife stepped forward and offered Selim her hand. “Would you refuse a queen’s entreaty?”
Slowly, tearfully, Selim reached forward. “No, Majesty. I will not.”
“Welcome, Selim of Ethrin and Olom. I, queen of the hidden realm, invite you to enter your new home.”
Sheep spilled from the portal, a torrent of white wool and delicate hooves and frantic bleats. Far back along the green avenue, Fareed and Shona used their wands to spur the animals along.
Over a hundred dragons dotted the surrounding pastures. Many had needed to be supported, some managed to crawl over on their own. The first sheep to arrive were taken in one gulp. Most of the dragons rested now, observing in bemused contentment as the wooly animals continued to flood out, decorating the meadows.
Selim returned through the portal, surveyed the scene, and nervously cleared his throat. “I am required to raise an indelicate topic.”
“The shepherds and merchants of Olom want payment,” Hyam interpreted.
“I asked them to wait,” Selim said. “But their needs are great as well.”
“Give me the reckoning and I will—” Hyam stopped because the dragon demanded to know what concerned Selim. He explained, “My friend is asking for payment. I can arrange this through the Ashanta bankers. The Earl of Falmouth will also help.”
“There is no need.”
“The Milantians have harmed Selim’s city,” Hyam continued. “Not so severe as your clan, but bad enough. They need payment now.”
“They will be paid in full, and in gold, and by me,” the dragon replied. “Take hold of my right leg, and use the talons as support.”
Hyam doubtfully eyed the massive leg as the dragon extended his wings. “Can I not ride on your back?”
“Not without a harness, and there is no time to fashion one.”
Hyam stepped in close and gripped the leathery skin as he would a tree trunk. “I am ready. I think.”
“Hold fast!”
They did not journey far, which was good, as Hyam’s perch was not secure. The dragon flew in a series of rapid ascents and descents, as though he cast a new spell with every few beats of his wings. As a result, he flew like a snake swam, writhing through the air and almost losing his passenger a dozen times and more. When the dragon finally settled upon the island’s loftiest peak, Hyam staggered about on unsteady legs and said, “Perhaps I should walk back.”
The dragon coughed, or laughed, or both. Then, “Enter the cave behind you.”
The cave’s entrance was larger than Falmouth’s main gates, which was good, for the dragon lumbered along behind him. When his bulk blocked the sun, the dragon fashioned a mage-light. The way wound downward at a gentle slope and finally opened into a chamber so vast the ceiling was lost to the gloom.
The dragon’s chatter echoed off distant walls. “One legend about our race is true enough. We have always been drawn to gold and gemstone. Why, I cannot say, for we do not spend, only hoard.”
The chamber opened into another that to Hyam appeared even larger, and then a third, and perhaps a fourth, but the distances were so great he could not be sure of anything save they were all filled with treasure.
On display were vast seas of gold and jewels. They lay in piles ten times Hyam’s height and spilled from chests scarred by coral and fire both. What appeared to be an entire bank vault lay gaping in the far corner, with gold bars spilling out its portal like a glowing tongue.
The dragon touched one chest bound by rusting iron bars and filled with coins milled in some ancient age. “Will this do?”
“It is twenty times too much,” Hyam replied. “Fifty.”
“Take it, take more. For all that you see here is yours.”
The unemotional drumbeat carried such finality, Hyam found himself unable to keep his sorrow in check. “I have failed my beloved.”
“Your quest has faced a setback, nothing more. And know this, human. The bonds between us are not ended simply because my own needs have been met. Whenever you require assistance, in whatever form, it is yours.”
Hyam cuffed away tears and said, “I do not know where to go, or if I have the strength to continue.”
“I and my kind will help in the search. As for strength . . .” The beast extended his wings fully, lifted his head, and roared flame and power. A pillar of fire rose and spilled across the distant ceiling, transforming the dragon into a beast of lore and majesty. “To know a dragon’s name is to bind him for life. But I am already bound to you.”
“My name is Tragan, king of the northern reaches.” He blasted the chamber with fire a second time. “We dwell in the land of ice and storm at the earth’s pinnacle. Once in three of your brief generations, we return to our breeding ground. The island was granted to us by the same treaty that bound us to remain beyond the reach of man. Elf and Ashanta and Milantian all built their realms and forgot us in the process. In truth it pleased us to become mere legend and myth, for in our secret tongue, our race is called the Unknown.”
Hyam forced himself to focus beyond the ache that threatened to consume him, sure as the ceramic eye. “The queen of Lystra called you the covert one,” he recalled.
“Those witches hold to the old ways, but poorly. Their city’s secrets are known to the dark ones of their race, who threaten to expose and destroy them if they do not do their bidding. But they did not pass on news of your visit and our meeting, which is to their credit. Even so, you should not trust them unless you must. If you do, be prepared, for they will demand payment of a sort. In the case of our meeting, the witches demanded magic.”
Hyam pushed aside his grief. “There is much you can teach us.”
“Again, you need ask and it is yours. We are the last holders of the ancient ways. Some among us claim the Ancients came to us to learn spell casting.” He gave a ponderous shrug. “Some of my kind show an arrogance to match their size.”
Now that this chapter of his quest was coming to a close, Hyam felt overwhelmed by the misery of fatigue. But he did not want to respond to the dragon’s gift with sorrow, so he turned and pretended to survey the treasure. “So much wealth.”
“This is nothing. We males sent to feed the nesting mothers compete to see who can draw up the most gold from the Ancients’ cities, those now scattered about the ocean floor. Our northern lair would swallow this in one small corner. You must come and see for yourself.”
Hyam cuffed his eyes a second time. “I would like that.”
The dragon saw the motion and pointed with his giant head. “Atop that pile to your left is a golden vial. Bring it here.”
Hyam climbed the hill of treasure and returned with a king’s goblet, twice the size of his joined fists and topped by an ornate cap that was held in place with a pair of gold catches carved like swans. The goblet and cap were heavily engraved with a flowing script that Hyam did not recognize, and rimmed by rubies the size of acorns.
“Remove the cap and hold it aloft.” Tragan lowered his head such that one cheek grazed against Hyam’s hand. When he spoke, he exposed teeth the length of Hyam’s thigh. “The Ancients held us in high regard for one thing above all else. They claimed that a dragon’s tears healed all wounds. But I suspect it will not bring back your beloved, bondsman.”
“I understand,” Hyam said. And he did. For Joelle was not ill.
“Even so, perhaps it will sustain her.” He leaned closer still. “You will now behold a mystery that few have ever understood.”
“Because a dragon cannot cry.” Tragan tilted his head slightly so that the lower lid of one massive eye touched the cup’s rim. “Hold very still.”
Tragan blinked and released a drop of blood the size of Hyam’s hand. Again. A third time, and the cup was full.