

Fuel to the fire

###   
David M. Staniforth

Text copyright © David Staniforth 2012

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are  
products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to  
actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords edition

Other e book titles by David Staniforth

Fuel to the Fire series:  
Ruler's Desire (book 2)  
Elemental Cascade (book 3) due spring 2014

Labyrinth of Labyrinths series:  
Alloria (book 1)

One

Davran bit her lip and stared at the dark imposing doors, the howling shriek still ringing in her ears. Resisting the push and shove of the men all around them, Samaq closed his hand around hers and squeezed a measure of comfort. More than almost anything, she wanted to hold on to her father, but the dread of discovery forced her to draw her hand away.

Never drop the pretence, she thought, the words coming to her mind in Samaq's voice.

Never.

Ever.

She had heard the sound before, razor hounds, in the wilderness, far beyond the cut. Distance had softened its menacing edge. In her fifteen years she had yet to see one, and now wondered if it would look as fearful as it sounded. Knowing the creature was not directly behind the door, but deep in the heart of the building, she pushed her fear aside and ran through her memory all Samaq had told her. Speaking inside the arena being forbidden, this was the last chance for any askings. She had none to ask. Ready as I'm ever gonna be, she determined, as mute guards heaved the doors open and she looked with resignation into the cavernous entrance.

The interior throbbed with a distant drum beat, almost inaudible, felt more than heard, and yet it captured and controlled her heart's rhythm. The mass of men moved forward. Captured in the flow, Davran glanced over her shoulder, absorbing what might possibly be her last view of the sky, to see a guard looking directly down on her from his lofty platform. Her heart kicked. He was one of Saurian's elite – special guards assigned to the palace grounds. Leather armour highlighted like a second skin his heavily muscled bulk. He leaned forward, a band of thick leather around his forearm glinted with menacing blades.

Taking a moment to scan the crowd, the guard then looked back at her, reading – so it seemed – her deepest thoughts and fears. Did he know? Did he see father hold my hand and think it strange: an action more befitting a daughter than the son she pretended to be. Looking like a boy was easy; behaving like one was getting increasingly difficult.

As if the guard's scrutiny was not enough another howl ripped through the gloom, louder and more blood chilling now the doors were open. As a distraction she again reminded herself of all Samaq had told her. Horrid things. Things told in her best interest, told so she would be better prepared. She glanced at her father's face. His eyes were locked on the entrance, expressionless.

As they squeezed beyond the opening – narrowed by the guards lining it, arms folded, forearm blades glinting – a minor tussle erupted. A spray of blood misted the air in front. Men began pushing men. One of them stumbled backwards. Davran turned aside, leaving space for the man to correct his balance. The action took her away from Samaq, only two paces apart, but at that very moment the guard nearest to Samaq unfolded his arms and stepped back. The flow nearest Samaq quickened dragging him away from Davran.

Beyond the entrance the men spread into the gloom, all silent, all heading for corridors that throbbed with the beating drum. Davran could have rushed on. She could have caught up with Samaq, but she stopped dead, snagged by a terrible unexpected sight.

She saw Samaq turn to look back, his eyes frantically searching. She knew she should head towards him but couldn't help staring up at the interior wall, at the hooks and the bodies that Samaq had neglected to mention, seven of them hanging by the wrists, rusty shackles cutting deep into their flesh.

Samaq had seen her and was struggling back, trying to make it look casual. She should move on, she knew that, save him the struggle, the risk of being spotted, but continued to gaze at the bodies on the wall. She felt a strong compulsion to do something, but what could she do, a mere girl in a place where females were not even allowed. She glanced at Samaq as he edged closer and appeared to be silently cursing with every step.

He didn't look up at the bodies. He looked at her. He looked her in the eye. She saw a scream in that look, a scream that told her to move. She saw something else too. A look of what... regret... sorrow... fear?

These bodies could not have escaped his memory.

He was meant to have told me everything.

When yer of age: he'd promised.

Everythin, he'd said.

Every pain-filled detail.

Why then, aint he told this?

Even with Samaq by her side, even though she knew she should take the sight in her stride, she continued to gaze up at them, at their heads, tipped onto their shoulders, their expressions partially hid by a gauzy material that showed a mere trace of the horror. The mouth of one drew the muslin against his teeth on the flight of a shallow breath. It was stained around the mouth and nostrils, and hinted at the measure of life still present.

Samaq didn't look at them. He stood by Davran , looking down the passage. In a sudden rush he tugged Davran's sleeve. She let him shepherd her into the shroud of men. Her father had to have known. They must always be here, she told herself, as they passed more bodies, scores of them hanging from the walls in various states of decay.

Fifteen years old, and it hit her – an unexpected punch of realisation – she knew so little. She had been shielded all of her life.

Intending to get seats far away from the master's box, they had arrived early. Davran guessed these areas were already full, as every tunnel Samaq went for was barred by a closed gate and a menacing guard. Samaq walked on pausing every few steps. Davran followed, head dipped, knowing she was responsible. Eventually they reached an interior tunnel which was still open.

Darkness swallowed them as the tunnel gate clanged shut behind. A faint orange glow marked the opposite end. Samaq placed a hand on Davran's shoulder and firmly pushed forward. There might be room at the back, she thought, picturing Samaq's description of the arena's interior.

From the tunnel they spilled out onto a wide ledge. The upper seats were full, and as they descended to the lower benches, those closest to Saurian's platform, Samaq looked concerned.

The place was enormous, much larger than Davran had expected. She scanned the domed ceiling, wondering at how such an expanse did not collapse. Up high she saw the drummers, eight of them, even more hugely muscled than the guards outside. Leather masks covered their faces, making them look slightly inhuman. Each stood on a separate elevated stage, equally spaced around the arena, arching over the heads of the seated crowd. Every thumping blow bounced to the spiralling roof and fell in a deluge of crushing sound that penetrated her like a blunt spike. Each forceful thump swelled her blood, pounded her temples, and rattled her ribs.

Samaq indicated a bench with space for them to sit together. Davran side-stepped along it, (the drummers momentarily forgotten) her gaze now fixed on the two razor hounds snarling at each other. The closest of the creatures was almost within touching distance, each black-wire hair clearly visible. It was all fearsomely unnerving and amplified by the worrisome expression on Samaq's face. But she was fine; she was coping. She wanted to tell him, but knew she couldn't. She wanted to to tell him not to worry about her, but knew he would anyway. So she sat in silence, watching, emulating his action as he swept his dark glistening eyes over the crowd.

She saw no women at all.

That was expected. Females were not allowed. But Davran wondered if there were others like her. Had other girls spent their entire lives disguised as boys to avoid being chosen as handmaids, or was she the only one? A surprising number of the crowd, young like her, fidgeted in their seats. Samaq's words entered her mind: look as if yer've seen it all before, like it aint nothin new. The way her insides churned, she didn't know if she would manage it. She understood why other young people fidgeted. She understood why she needed to be invisible. Those who got noticed were likely made an example of.

She had no intention of being an example.

Examples, she now realised, find themsens hangin from walls. Davran looked at Samaq and followed his eye-line along the row to their right.

Thirty yards around the arc, two rows back, she met the gaze of Farfell, their neighbour. Farfell's twins, nudged each other and smiled in her direction. Davran ignored them, as Samaq had instructed. Farfell side-mouthed something to the man in the next seat: Tarpink? Tarrik? Yes, Tarrik. A trusted friend of Farfell's. Tarrik nodded at Samaq and held his gaze. With some hesitation Samaq returned the gesture before looking away.

Davran's knee wavered against Samaq's, and as she looked at the hounds, she wondered if Samaq remembered his first visit to the arena. Had he been afraid? Despite the worry on his face, she couldn't imagine Samaq being afraid of anything. To prepare her he had described the razor hounds in detail. Even so Davran was shocked by their size, the hump of their shoulders as tall as the handler's heads. She sniffed a long draw of air into her nostrils. It was dank and smelled exactly as Samaq had said it would: the stench of the beasts; the sweat of the crowd; a hint of stale vomit. Sommat else, she though, sommat he's missed from his tellin. Dung: a sweet and sickly undertone laced with acrid smoke which Davran now watched as it coiled from the torches of burning pitch. Their flames, fluttered like flags, forcing shapes to dance across dark walls and throw giant drumming shadows to the high ceiling.

Beneath the shadows the beasts strained against their chains, claws shredding the soil. Handlers held them back, four to each hound, their thighs and biceps bulging like coiled rope. The chill in the air nipped Davran's cheeks, captured her breath in fragile clouds, and yet the handlers glistened with sweat. One handler's chain slipped a few links. Davran stiffened and formed a fist. She noticed, from the corner of her eye, the slight tilt of her father's head and knew he'd glanced at her. She turned her attention back to the handler as he wound his hand through the chain, and gripping tighter, locked his own gaze on the master, Saurian, standing at the head of the arena.

Avoid eye contact with Saurian, Samaq had said, repeatedly. Don't look at him at all. She felt tempted, so locked her gaze on the handler. His gaze was fixed on Saurian, and more than once she found herself straying onto his line of sight. Saurian's presence tugged as if attached to her. She resisted the urge, concentrated on watching the handler, his hand wrapped in chain.

Like the other handlers and the silent crowd he was waiting for Saurian's command.

She imagined what the handler was feeling, what he was thinking. Lost in these thoughts she followed the handler's gaze, and unexpectedly found herself staring at Saurian. Thankfully, he was looking the other way.

Saurian did not yet seem to be ready and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his silver robe shimmering in the torch-light. To each side of him stood a guard. Elite, like those outside, tall, solid, clad in leather, the spikes on their forearms caught amber glints from the flickering torches. For their stillness they could have been statues, and standing beside them Saurian could have been taken for a boy – not insignificant, just smaller, perhaps only half a head taller than she. He began to turn his head. She continued to look, poised to avert her eyes quickly should he turn all the way. He didn't. He leaned onto the balustrade, surveying the crowd, silver-blue eyes piercing the darkness.

Faces at the far side of the arena looked no bigger that Davran's thumbnail, and to her eye were just as blank, their detail smudged by gloom. Saurian though seemed to see every expression, and scanning them, appeared to read their thoughts. Drawing a breath through flared nostrils, he flicked his white hair from his shoulders and cast a glance to the nearest drummer. A slight nod of his head followed.

The pounding beat grew to a faster, more forceful slamming. Davran's heart, trapped in the relentless rhythm, whirled like a feather in a vortex. She wrenched her eyes from Saurian as he turned in her direction. One of the beasts suddenly reared up, its chains clanking as it rose twice the height of the men struggling to hold it. Davran gasped and received a firm jerk from Samaq's knee.

Hammering crashed along the walls like a caged animal. Louder. Faster. Heavier. Saurian flexed his jaw, looked around the crowd and casually raised his arm. Handlers watched with committed obedience. Drums pounded ever faster and chest-crushingly louder. The entire building sang with vibration. Writhing against the chains, the beasts snarled, twisted and tugged.

Drum beats fell even faster, even heavier.

Boom. Bang. Boom. Bang. Faster and faster. Crushingly loud. Heavy in her ears. Throbbing through her chest.

Saurian's hand fell.

The drumming crashed to a halt.

Its echo rolled like departing thunder and Samaq jumped to his feet, dragging Davran to hers. Whipping chains slashed the air. An explosion of noise swelled the roof, the mob cheering, hollering and stamping.

The handlers ran from the floor, all but the one with his hand wrapped in chain. The charging beast to which he was tethered jerked the handler from his feet. He twisted onto his back, looked into the face of the beast and clawed at the tightening chain. He kicked up dry dust as the creatures snapped wildly. Each time the handler rolled to the side he managed to get to his feet, only to tumble again as the chain pulled tight.

Suddenly both the razor-hounds pounced at the same time. The handler cried out as the claws of one ripped into the muscle of his leg and dragged him close. His scream rose above the roar of the mob. Despite being snared he desperately tried to free himself from the chain. A mighty swipe from the second beast cut into his stomach. Spluttering, the man's lips frothed with blood. Looking at Saurian, his eyes appeared to beg for mercy. None was given. The handler then slumped, his pitiful cries drowned in gurgles of rising fluid.

Davran winced at the sound of cracking bone and glanced at Saurian in disbelief. When she looked back to the floor the hounds were tugging the body like rope. Their tugging split him at the stomach-wound, spilling his guts around the severed spine in a cloud of steam. Sickened by the sight, Davran still could not make herself look away. The hounds whipped away a half each, spraying the crowd close by with gore. Davran felt a compulsion to vomit, but instead, swallowing against the need, looked back at Saurian. He leaned over the balcony, a grin spreading his face, his eyes wide with delight, holding out his hands to catch a spray of blood. In seeming ecstacy he held his head back, his mouth wide, his tongue outstretched licking frantically at droplets in the air.

An overwhelming sense of hatred brushed aside Davran's need to vomit.

The handler devoured, beast turned once again on beast. They circled one another, slowly, the battle now more controlled, as each creature waited for advantage.

Saurian looked on, raking his fingers through his hair. He appeared agitated and turned as if to walk away. He then darted back, his face flush with anger. Abruptly he shouted, "SILENCE!" his voice ringing with power.

An immediate silence smothered the crowd. Saurian placed a foot on the balcony and leapt into the arena. Turning on the spot, glancing over each shoulder, he glared at the razor-hounds, his eyes switching from one to the other. In barely more than a whisper, his teeth gritted, Saurian growled, "I demanded silence!" The volume of his imperative was constrained, but the presence of power within it sliced with a judder into Davran's bones.

The razor-hounds shrank into their haunches and circled Saurian. They rolled their shoulders, heads held low, eyes level with Saurian's, strings of red-drool stretching from their snarling jowls. Saurian wet his lips before firming his jaw. The creatures howled in unison, then launched forward.

Davran drew a sharp breath, for at that moment Saurian closed his eyes. He tipped his head back and flung out his arms, capturing their throats and gripping tight. He squeezed, his arms trembling. The razor-hounds bared ferocious looking teeth in mouths large enough to easily close around Saurian's head. They snarled and twisted while Saurian looked straight ahead, his face a picture of fearless concentration. He laughed maniacally as gasping for air the creatures began to writhe. Saurian held on, his hands lost in their greasy hair, squeezing. Davran found herself emulating the grimace on Saurian's face, clenching her jaw so forcefully her teeth began to hurt.

Perhaps fearing death, the creatures tried to retreat. Saurian held on, the sinew in his arms tight with tension. Finally the razor hounds slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Saurian twisted his stern expression into a sneer as he eyed the crowd, raised his arms, and turning on the spot, repeated the words, "I demanded silence."

The crowd took the signal and a roar waved around the arena. Prompted by Samaq, Davran cheered. Some of the crowd howled like animals. Some stamped their feet. Others whistled loudly, fingers stretching their mouths. Davran tried to copy, but finding only a dry-rasp howled instead. Saurian dropped his arms, allowed his blood-stained robe to fall to the ground, and paraded naked around the fallen creatures, crossing his wrists before his stomach, leaning forward, expanding his chest.

Davran felt drawn to the pendent swinging from a chain around Saurian's neck. It was so black it looked to be a hole in his chest. A hole where yer heart should a been, she thought. Through its cast of blackness, as if formed of captured light, was conjured the image of a golden fist.

Davran felt a stinging sensation in her eyes, so painful that they began to water. Saurian, a blur to her squinting sight, turned to face the crowd on the opposite side. The burning sensation eased, her vision cleared, but the image of the golden fist remained. Davran tried to shake it away, but like the seared impression of a bright flame it remained.

Saurian circled the arena once more, the strutting victor welcoming applause, before entering a corridor of polished black stone. Unlike the amulet, the corridor gleamed and reflected Saurian's image when he entered. Davran stared after Saurian and as he disappeared the golden fist faded.

Gradually the applause died.

Samaq urged Davran to move as others began to leave.

* * *

Away from the arena, Samaq paused and drew Davran into the shadows. "You did well," he said, his voice soft with compassion as he gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him. Brushing his thumb across the glinting tracks of her tears, he quickly scanned the shadows before cupping her face in his calloused hands and planted a kiss on her nose. She looked back at him, puzzled, but then gave a slightly-skewed half-smile of appreciation. Samaq smiled back, his dark eyes casting a glint which indicated that they too brimmed with moisture.

"There are stories, Davran, tellin of a sky as clear and blue as your eyes. They say a wheel of fire once rolled through it. And when the sky cried, magical colours called rainbows appeared. Wharra sight that must have been, Davran, eh? Wharra sight."

"I'd like to a seen it," she said, reaching up, grasping her father's hands and drawing them away from her face. "But, yer've told me this story afore."

Shaking his head, Samaq's smile faded as he glared at the palace tower.

Silhouetted against the sky it loomed high above the sprawl of ramshackle dwellings. Light streamed from the windows. She could see small figures moving around. Maybe one of them was Farfell's daughter, Maia. Davran shuddered as she imagined the horrors behind the palace walls. They were horrors that could potentially befall her now she had turned fifteen.

For all of these years Samaq and her mother, Varna, had successfully protected her, passing her off as a boy.

To keep up the pretence she now had to learn to be a man.

### Two

Samaq had smeared a mix of dung, rotten vegetable matter and congealed blood over her clothes. Even dry it made Davran's stomach churn. Becoming a man was not all she had expected, and as they headed past the last few dwellings on their way to the wilderness, feeling anxious, she saw an image of Saurian's amulet floating before her.

The black sphere's surface rippled and came to resemble a black fist; from within shimmered a golden light. The golden light became white and pierced like a hot needle into the core of her mind. It then faded, rippling, becoming once more a black sphere that disappeared leaving behind the golden fist.

Davran was about to mention it to Samaq when he abruptly stopped and she crashed into him. He grunted, shrank into the shadow of a low wall, and pulled her down by his side.

"Focus," he snarled, pointing in the direction they had been walking.

Some distance away, a silhouetted figure darted from one shadow to another. She knew better than to let her mind wander. Out here to be less than focused was dangerous. One of Samaq's many tellins.

Squatting against the wall, determined to be more careful from now on, she observed Samaq watching the patch of darkness before them, knowing that they too were also being watched.

"Knowin who yer can and can't trust is important," Samaq whispered, "remember that. We don't trust. Not till we know who they are. Even then we're careful. It ain't easy to make friends, an' yer gorra be certain. But, it's still worth the effort. Share food with friends when yerv spare. When he's spare he might share too. People with true friends have a better chance of surviving. Remember that."

"Like Farfell?"

"Yes, Farfell's a good friend. Yer can trust him."

"Like mother!?"

"Of course."

If Samaq had caught the cutting edge Davran gave to the word mother he didn't show it. Last night, when Samaq had told Varna how Davran had stopped and stared at the bodies on the wall, Varna had looked worried. What if she'd been discovered; the words rang with reasonable concern, but to follow it with: Better she die now than that.

Varna's comment had escalated to an argument with Samaq, an argument which ended in Samaq slamming his knife on the table and saying, kill her then. Varna glanced at the knife and said I couldn't, which was a relief. She then turned to ladle stew from the pot, and in words not much more than breath said, – not now.

Unable to sleep that night, Davran played the words in her mind, trying to convince herself she'd heard wrong, but she hadn't. Much as she tried to mould the words they would take no other shape. Not now, could only mean: once could have.

Once could have, she thought, watching Samaq, dagger in hand, edging toward the gloom where the other man lurked. Davran saw a narrow but bright glint of red and recognised it as the edge of a blade reflecting the sky. On the verge of warning Samaq she stopped herself. Everyone had a knife. Of course the stranger had a knife. She herself had a knife, and was well practiced in its use. She ran through her mind the act of throwing it into the stranger's gut.

"Keep back Davran. Keep hidden," Samaq whispered through a cupped hand. He paused a moment, as if thinking of something else to say. . . "If I get killed, run straight back to yer mother."

"But–"

"Don't even think of revenge."

Samaq had grumbled, when setting out, after the wind ripped the door from his hand dislodging a bone from the tangled construction. A bad omen, he explained, while threading the bone back in place. He'd groaned as he bent to pick up the bone, complaining that he was getting old. Mother was much younger, but then she was Samaq's second wife.

Samaq paused, and for a brief moment she thought he was going to come back. He would never do that though; safer to face an engaged threat head-on than turn and retreat. He stopped a moment and stretching his legs rubbed his thighs. "Definitely gerrin too old for this."

No you're not, Davran said to herself. When people get too old they die. She refused to contemplate the idea of Samaq's passing. He's not too old. Not yet. Please, not yet.

The stranger scraped his blade against a rock, sending a metallic rasp into the air. He then clicked his tongue three times and ran his blade along the rock again. Samaq replied, running his blade along a rock twice in quick succession, clicking his tongue once and running his blade along the rock again.

"It's alright Davran," Samaq called, relief in his voice. "It's a friend."

Davran crawled to Samaq's side. He leaned toward her and whispered, "You'll have to learn them codes."

Still cautious, the two men approached each other, poised for possible attack or counter. Davran followed a few paces behind Samaq, her thumb tracing the length of her belt toward her knife's handle.

"Oh! Yusmuth... it's you."

The change of tone in her father's voice prompted Davran to unclasp her knife. Gripping the handle, she slid it up and down the sheath to make certain it would easily come free.

"Ah," Yusmuth exclaimed, stepping closer, "Davran's become a man I see."

"Learning to become a man," Samaq corrected, his eyes downcast as he sheathed his knife. "Big gap from boy to man. Needs a father to bridge it."

Yusmuth gazed at Davran and licked his lips. Davran edged closer to Samaq and Yusmuth chuckled.

"Well... Good thing he's not a girl, Samaq. He's grown pretty enough as a boy."

"Clamp yer tongue," Samaq snapped, looking up, tugging at the handle to make certain his knife was secure. "Loose talk like that –"

"I know."

"Yes, well–"

"Sorry, Samaq. Sorry. Tell me..." Yusmuth reached forward and patted Davran's arm. "What've yer learned so far?"

Davran twisted away from Yusmuth's touch and elevated her shoulders. "Loads. My father's a good teacher."

"I'm certain he is. What things, hmmn?"

"Keep to shadows; how ter search the palace dump; that Saurian's even more cruel than–"

"Davran!" Samaq clamped a hand over her mouth. He scowled in warning and held her gaze while slowly taking his hand away.

Yusmuth gasped in shock, then playfully tutted, widening his eyes with seeming delight. He shook his head ever so slightly, and, holding Davran's gaze with his own, bit away a smirk that hid behind his lips.

Davran's expression hardened, and in a tone rolled with grit she added. "But, he throws good food to rot while people starve."

"Hush your tongue, my–"

Raising a finger for emphasis, Samaq halted on the brink of saying more. Davran guessed girl. He'd actually almost said girl. Almost. Girl. My girl. He'd almost said the one thing that should never be said out loud. And in front of this man.

"We don't talk about it." Samaq growled, covering his near slip with only a minor pause. "Loose talk'll get yer killed. Words is dangrus. He's ears every place." Samaq tipped his eyes in Yusmuth's direction and tapped her forehead as if forcing the implication to stay put.

"A feisty lad, indeed, hmmn?" Yusmuth chuckled and ruffled Davran's hair. As he withdrew his hand he allowed the back of his fingers to trail the soft downy skin of Davran's cheek. "Anything else?"

"How avin good friends's important." Davran paused a moment and pierced Yusmuth's gaze. She looked at how fleshed out his face was, particularly for an outlander like them. Compared to her father he was fat. "You gor any food to share?"

"I note you're teaching him well, Samaq." Yusmuth nudged Davran's shoulder and winked. "You'll do well," he said with a wry smile, spreading his hands apologetically. "Unfortunately, no. I've no food to share. I've precious little for my own family."

"How's pickings 'mongst the rocks?" Samaq enquired, looking at the distant mountains.

"Some lichen and fungus, but I had to... I ad ter go in deep to... ter get the little I have here." Yusmuth glanced around before opening his hand, revealing a compressed ball of grey-mush.

Samaq blew a silent whistle. "How far?"

Her father seemed surprised, she thought, at the risk Yusmuth had taken for such little gain. If Samaq knew what she'd spotted, he wouldn't be so surprised. If he knew, he might think a slitting Yusmuth's throat instead a askin him questions.

"Razor hounds breathing down my neck, that's how far. Had to skirt the far mountain. Close to it's been well picked over. Times are hard, Samaq, hmmn? People are desperate. Hatred of him is at an all time high you know."

"No wonder! Holdin food back. Starvin folk. I know he's cruel, but does he want us all dead?" Samaq's brow wrinkled in deep furrows as he waited for Yusmuth's reply. When none came Samaq continued. "So, yer risked the mountains then? Better to wait and search the palace walls for his spoils, I'd a thought, or even the next event at the arena. Only scraps, but less dangrus."

Yusmuth shook his head. "Apparently the arena's on hold, and he's having food buried instead of handing it to the people. I know someone who watched it happen."

"Who?"

"You don't know him."

"I might."

"No. You don't know him."

"...Where're they burying it?"

"The west wing of the palace. But they're guarding it."

"I was just by the west wing and there wasn't a guard in sight."

Yusmuth scowled. "It is expansive. Maybe you were at the opposite end. Anyway, don't even think of looking for it, or digging it up if you find the spot, or you'll find yourself hanging from a wall. There's not going to be any easy pickings at the palace. Not any time soon. I've heard some outlanders are braving the swamp in search of food. Some even talk of venturing over the mountains!"

"No! Really? That's suicidal. They'll be– We'd best try the wasteland then." Samaq loosely draped an arm around Davran's shoulder, and made as if to move away.

"It's risky out there." Yusmuth looked at the mountains and turned to back Samaq with a look of concern. "I could take Davran back with me, if you like?"

Yusmuth reached out to take hold of Davran's hand. She flinched at his touch and snapped her arms behind her back, clasping her right wrist with her left hand. Her right hand held her dagger at the ready.

"You know how dangerous it is, Samaq, hmmn?"

To Davran's surprise, taking his arm from her shoulder, Samaq seemed to consider the offer. Then to her relief said: "No. Thanks, but no. He's got to learn some time. Now's as good as any."

Yusmuth placed a hand on Samaq's shoulder and leaned into his ear. "Stay alert my friend. Changing times ahead. Can almost feel the hatred in people these days. There are those we shouldn't trust I think! Hmmn? If I hear of any I'll let you know. You'll reciprocate... do the same, yes?"

"Yeh. Knowledge is power."

"Knowledge is indeed power," Yusmuth echoed, nodding. "I've heard magistrates are scouring our sector soon."

"Really? Well... I'll... be careful."

"Anything for a friend. And if you need a hand training Davran, hmmn?

"...I'll let you know."

* * *

When they had found and crossed a pole at the cut, confident that Yusmuth was well behind them, Davran finally spoke. "He talks funny."

"Mmm," Samaq answered.

"Uses strange words."

"Mmm."

"He had green plants in his pockets, praps other stuff. They were bulging."

"I know. He must've found a good patch."

"You knew?"

"Yes."

"But you dint let on?"

"No."

"He ain't a good friend."

"No."

"We don't let him know that we know though, do we?"

Samaq clapped her back and chuckled. "Never let others know exactly what you know, nor what you're thinking. And let them think you're as dumb as they would like to believe you are. Do that, and when they think they're foolin you, yer really fooling them. Reciprocate, indeed."

"You know strange words too?"

"Yer mother taught me. Woulda taught you too, but it's easier to hide stuff yer din't never know in the first place."

"Res-hip-row-kate," Davran voiced, forcing the sounds. "Do the same. I'll remember that"

"Forget fancy words," Samaq cautioned, "they'll do yer little good. Keep yer knowings and yer thinkings to yersen."

"I can tell you though? My thinkings?"

"What's on yer mind, Davran?"

"Last night," she said, hesitantly, wishing she'd thought about it some more first, "before dinner, when we got back from the arena, when yer slammed yer knife on the table, mother said she couldn't kill me then added, not now. Does that mean there was a time when she would a done?"

Samaq paused too long in answering for Davran's liking and then hurriedly said, "No, course not."

Even as the words left her mother's mouth she had dismissed them. Now though, in light of Samaq's delayed response... Davran recalled times when she had looked up and caught her mother glaring at her, as if she despised her, or mistrusted her. She had hoped it a making of her imagination, but in light of this she wasn't so certain.

"I think she hates me."

"Yer mother doesn't hate yer... its just... there are things about yer mother that even I don't know. Things she'd never talk about. Terrible things, I should think, as happened 'fore I met her. But one thing I do know is she loves yer more'n life itself."

There was something he wasn't telling her.

She could tell.

It was the slight pause when he finished speaking, as if he was drawing breath to say more. Now was not the time to press the matter. Out of character, she placed her hand in his as they neared the incline of harsh looking rocks.
Three

Davran followed Samaq in silence along the trail that weaved through the wilderness and vanished at the lower scarps amid a twisted and torn landscape of yawning chasms and deep channels that scarred the craggy terrain and gave rise to savage looking walls.

Sudden gusts tugged her cloak as they descended into a steep sided channel of harsh-faced rock. Had she a mind to stretch both arms and let her fingers trail the walls they would have come back skinless. In places the channel narrowed so much they had to draw in their elbows, at times even edge sideways. In the distance came the howling shriek of razor hounds, so it was with reluctance, as they met a dead end, Samaq and Davran clambered onto the surface in search of another route.

"They won't get us will they?" Davran asked, scrambling over the surface, picturing the beasts in the arena.

"Only if we're careless." Samaq lowered himself into a narrow fissure bottomed with a thick layer of dust. He held out a hand to help Davran, but she jump down beside him and walked on.

"That Yusmuth said people are looking in the swamp for food," Davran stated, looking over her shoulder to see Samaq shake his head. "Why didn't we?"

"I've never ventured there, Davran. Never will. Dark creatures inhabit that place, much more dangrus than razor hounds. Slitherings. Slippery as a greased rope, so I'm told: no arms or legs! Kill with a single bite. You should have learned these things earlier, but your mother insisted on protecting you for as long as possible. Lemons and nectar, or whatever it is she says. Worse still are the spirits of the dead who can't die. They say that victims are wrapped in a cocoon, kept alive, and fed on every day. Don't know as it's true mind. Still..."

Davran pulled her hood tight around her face as a blast of wind peppered her with dust and grit. "I've heard other children talk about unfortunates – the unfortunates are coming to get you – stuff like that."

"Unfortunates is just another name for the dead who can't die. Suicides. That's why few venture to the swamp. Everybody knows the dangers of the swamp, so to go there and die is suicidal. Same with all reckless acts. Those killed by slitherings, or the spirits of the dead who can't die, become dead who can't die themselves. Go to the swamp; I'd rather starve."

Davran thought for a moment, her eyes climbing the distant peaks. "What about over the mountains?"

"Yusmuth has a big mouth. Some have set out over the mountains, hoping to find traces of the old world, with dreams of food which can be plucked straight from the plant, fruit that has healing properties and tastes more delicious than anything you've ever eaten in your life. But whether you die in the swamp or the mountains, dead is still dead. Knowing the risk, taking it, and then dying is suicide."

"Is it true, though? Do people really live beyond the mountains?"

Samaq shrugged as he looked skyward. "If any have made it over the mountains none have returned to tell what they found. Why would they? Dragons up there. If it is all the tales say, who would bother coming back here?"

"Someone brave." Davran glanced at an overhanging rock, a heavy shelf which threatened to transform yet another cut into an enclosed tunnel.

"Or someone foolish," Samaq answered.

"Wouldn't you come back for me?"

"No! ... I wouldn't leave without you in the first place."

Davran's mind drifted to thoughts of friendship and bravery. In becoming a boy she had found the two closely linked. Girls tended to stay indoors, under their mother's wing, learning how to conjure a meal from scraps. She, pretending to be a boy, had played in the streets. 'Pretty boy' they'd often called her. 'You might get to be the first male handmaid'. Krull was three years older than her and twice her bulk, but that didn't stop him using his fists when she objected to the teasing. She never did get the better of him, her punches falling like a bunched rag on a rock. Eventually Krull came to respect her bravery and protected her from other would be pretenders to his dominant position. He'd taught her to fight, demonstrating techniques that allowed her to overcome her physical weakness. At the age of fifteen – at Krull's time of choosing – he was taken to be trained as a palace guard and never seen by her again, not until he'd looked down on her from the entrance to the arena.

They had so far collected so little food that she began to wonder if wandering the wilderness was worthwhile. Her stomach ached with hunger, but her legs ached more. She thought about the land beyond the mountains and wondered what the food Samaq had called fruit might taste like. One day, she determined, she would go there.

Samaq halted and as Davran looked up, a pale smear wavered in the sky. She was about to ask Samaq if he saw it too, when above, to the right of them, came a sharp tapping noise. Samaq turned, his pursed lips crossed with a finger. Grabbing her cloak, he dragged her beneath the overhang. Looking up, visually tracing the torn edge, points of flint lining it like jagged teeth, she felt as if she had been consumed by the ground itself. Through this stone mouth the sky seemed darker than ever, until it once more wavered with a cast of pale blue. The light rippled like fine fabric before fading back to blackness. Davran's mind fogged. The golden fist shimmered before her and for a mere moment all went quiet.

She shuddered as if waking from a dream, to a scrape of claw on rock, a deep growl rattling with phlegm. Davran looked at her father, wide-eyed, drawing her lower lip through her teeth. Like dust swirling in a fear-storm, dread churned Davran's gut as a trickle of fine gravel peppered her calf. A heavy musk infiltrated her nostrils. She wondered if the beast could also smell her. She could no longer smell the slime on her cloak so maybe it was no longer masking her scent.

The hairs on her neck prickling, she watched, mesmerised, as a string of drool stretched down from beyond the overhang. Casting a red glint it captured the essence of the blood-black sky and slowly descended. Stretched beyond its limit, the string broke and the glob landed by Davran's foot, spattering her bare flesh. Davran screwed her face in disgust, too afraid to move, unable to wipe it away.

A mirrored tapping of claw on rock came from the ledge opposite. A huge head appeared, almost twice the size of those in the arena, and snarled at the creature above them. Davran shrank into her father's chest. He leaned back to accommodate her, pressing against the rock face.

Struggling to keep silent Davran sucked shallow, quick breaths. Her heart pounded a chasing beat similar to that of the arena drums. It brought to mind the handler's scream. The razor hound opposite pounced for the one above and Davran buried her face into her knees. She squeezed herself closer to Samaq, forcing him to press more firmly against the rock face.

Violent shudders above shattered free shards of brittle rock. Samaq used his arms to shield Davran's head. He braced himself against the wall, holding her firm. An unexpected piercing yelp made Davran jolt. She almost screamed. Even Samaq gasped. A howl of victory quickly replaced the snarls and grunts of voracious feeding. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, silence.

"Do you think it's gone?" Davran whispered.

Samaq nodded, but his eyes indicated a need for further caution.

"I wer afeared," Davran felt ashamed to admit.

"So wer I." Samaq eased her from his chest and winced, sucking air through his teeth as he leaned forward. "Fear's yer friend, though, not yer enemy. Fear's the thing which makes yer run or hide. It stokes yer imagination, fuels yer instinct for survival. But, we can't let fear rule us. Never let even a friend rule yer, Davran. Always decide for yerself."

Samaq peered over the top of the cut and tutted. "All gone," he said. "Every scrap. Only puddles of blood left." He dropped back down and a subtle movement in the dust grabbed his attention.

"Stay here Davran," he said with sudden enthusiasm before clambering up onto the surface.

Davran peered over the edge, watching as he emptied the precious water from his skins and collected the blood.

"What's that fer?" Davran said, grimacing, as he lowered himself back into the trench. "We ain't gonna drink it?"

"No. See them tracks in the soil? Bunyip: a creature as feeds on dead things. Must've smelled my blood."

"What blood?" she gasped.

"My back. The rocks, they– It's not important." Samaq began drizzling the blood along the soil. "Bunyips are good eating," Samaq said, eyes wide. "Plenty of meat. Have to be careful though. Its rear end needs removing before its last breath, else the meat gets poisoned. Can't just stab about in the soil. We have to tempt it out; make it go where the soil thins."

Samaq placed the emptied skin where a rock jutted out. Tracing another trail towards Davran, he placed the second skin beside the rock where she sat embracing her knees. "If we catch this we'll eat well fer a week."

Samaq smiled and placed a hand over his gut as he perched beside her. "If we're lucky we might bag two. They often move in pairs so have yer knife ready. Be quick to kill it though, or its screams might call that razor hound back. When yer decide on a kill, don't think, act."

Leaning forward, his arms folded across his lap, Samaq turned to face Davran. "This might take a while. Watch fer the soil moving."

Davran took her knife in hand and scanned the dry soil in search of movement.

"Don't forget, yer can't just stab at it."

Davran tutted as she rolled her eyes. Smirking she turned away from Samaq and caught a distant sound. "What's that noise?" she whispered.

"More razor-hounds. Sound far off."

"No, the other noise. Like people moaning."

"Unfortunates. The ones trapped between life and death. They collect in a–"

Samaq suddenly raised a hand for quiet, his eyes locked onto the stream of drying-blood and the gentle undulation which followed its course to the right of where they sat. Flicking the edge of his blade with his thumb, he went onto all fours. "Stay here," he said, slowly following the undulation.

The slow pursuit took Samaq through the maze of sharp rocks and out of Davran's sight.

As she sat there, still as stone, waiting for her father to return, the distant wailing made her shudder. She felt uneasy, so tried to distract herself by dreaming of finding fruit over the mountains, of bursting the flesh and tasting the warm juice. She imagined it trickling down her throat. She tried to imagine what it might taste like and settled on happiness, deciding that this thing called fruit must give your insides the same feeling as a proud parent's smile. She pictured, in a pale blue sky, the golden wheel that Samaq had described. She imagined its warmth on her skin, pictured sprays of glistening water tingling through that warmth. Most of all she dreamed of reaching for the rainbows it painted.

With her blade, she playfully lashed out at imaginary foes, foes which barred her from such delights. Just then a rise and fall in the soil snagged her attention. I'm gonna capture one too, she thought, knowing Samaq never expected her too. Not really. If I can bag it we'll eat well fer two weeks, or we could give one to Farfell and the twins.

The hidden bunyip trundled along the trail of blood that led towards her. This is gonna be easy. Carefully lowering a foot to ground she slid part way down the rock in readiness. While lowering her other foot, though, she caught a loose stone that clattered to the ground. The bunyip halted then veered away to her left. Davran cursed her clumsiness. Annoyed with herself, she quietly dropped to her knees and glanced over her shoulder in the direction Samaq had gone. Just a little way won't hurt.

Following the bunyip's trail, she blocked out the unnerving noise of the unfortunates and concentrated on her quarry. The pursuit took her away from Samaq, into deeper and deeper shadow. The bunyip continued trundling beneath the barren soil. Davran kept up her pursuit. Just a little further. If I don't bag it soon I'll turn back. Only four paces behind the bunyip she held her knife at the ready, prepared to strike the moment it emerged. No point stopping now. Just a little further. As long as she didn't leave the channel getting back would be easy enough.

Deep shadow gradually became so dark that Davran could barely see the bunyip's movements. In frustration she dug with her blade. The soil erupted in a plume of dust on which Davran choked as the bunyip ran around her, squealing with ear-piercing shrillness. Davran panicked, chasing it with her knife, stabbing only dust, unable to see, hardly able to breathe. She heard the creature digging, throwing up more dust, giving her no choice other than to cover her mouth. As the dust settled, knowing she had failed, Davran sat back on her heels, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

With wandering hands she took in her surroundings and found she was enclosed by a tube of smooth-walled rock. The distant cries and wails no longer sounded so distant. Knowing she'd not travelled far she found this confusing. The sky glimmered through hairline cracks in the roof, its redness bright in contrast. She went to sheath her knife, her hand shaking, but changed her mind. She almost called out to Samaq, but realised at once how stupid it would be to shout. Always do thinking before acting - remember that. Recalling her father's words she forced a smile and tried to breathe calmly.

"Don't panic," she said, taking comfort from the sound of her own voice, her fingers fretting the knife handle.

As her eyes became more accustomed, the narrow veins which traced the roof cast enough light to see by. Through the reddish gloom, the tunnel looked identical in both directions. The creature's flurry had disturbed the dust to the front and rear of where she sat. I should be able to find my tracks further on, she told herself. If not I'll know I've gone the wrong way. With that in mind she began crawling.

The unfortunates cried like a mournful wind that filled Davran with dread. She immersed herself in fantasy, imagining that the tunnel was a way through the mountain. It was a route that avoided the dragons on the high peaks. Once through she would be feasting on the fruit of the valleys beyond; she would be washing in spray; she would be glowing in the light of the golden wheel that turned in a sky the colour of her eyes.

A faint light glimmered on the rock ahead. The entrance, she thought, speeding up as she rounded the corner, heading towards the light. The roof was getting lower, the walls more constricting, but the light beckoned. No tracks. Not the entrance, then, but the light enticed her to go closer. The cries and wails came louder still, carried on a breeze which slipped through a narrow gap beyond the illumination. The crack looked wide enough for her to pass through. Maybe I could get out that way, she lied to herself, knowing that she wanted to look closely at the source of illumination. It wasn't far to go back. She could have a quick look. Samaq would not leave without her. He would either wait for her at the point where they had separated or follow her tracks.

The source of light was the rock itself: a vein of brightness that swirled like liquid. Twisting through it was another vein: blacker in hue than the depths of the cave and seeming to swallow the light cast by the golden mineral. It reminded her of Saurian's amulet and the interplay of black sphere and golden fist. It had a hypnotic effect and resembled fine sand spilling into a hole. But this was not sand. It was light – liquid light. And it replenished itself, rolling, spilling back up its outer edge: a continual swirling exchange, elements of darkness and light in seeming perfect balance.

Davran caressed the strange rock expecting her fingers to dip into it.

She gasped to discover it was solid. Despite this, as she traced circles with her finger, the shades of light and dark, flowed as if being stirred. Light and dark began to blend. It warmed to her touch and sent a pleasant tingle through her fingertips.

As she continued it began to flicker, emitting brilliant white illumination where black and gold merged. The cries and wails beyond the crack grew louder. Davran peered through. The white light she had conjured streaked into a deep pass. Illuminated in its depth, scuttling like cockroaches, thousands of bodies crawled over each other. She pulled back from the gap and returned to her fantasy.

She was at the foot of the opposite side of the mountain, at the end of her quest. Closing her eyes tight, she envisioned an expanse of what she thought woodland might look like under a sky of blue. She imagined what a rainbow might look like: colours her father had said, blue and green and red, and other colours that she could not even begin to imagine, a roundel maybe, a roundel of swirling colour in a spray of fine rain.

Her eyes closed she did not see the rock glowing so brightly that it illuminated the entire cave. She did not see blades of light swing ever brighter over the unfortunates who leapt in an attempt to grasp it. Nor was she aware of the slight tremor in the rocks, as with the brightness of a thunderbolt, the air exploded without sound. Davran did, however, feel the reverberating impact in her chest and clenched her eyes even tighter as the air clouded with dust.

Willing more than ever her desire to see the rainbow, she flinched as streamers of grit from above peppered her skin, as fractured rock clattered to the floor. The ground trembled beneath her. The walls shook, and with a heavy rumble the roof of the cave collapsed.
Four

Pantal paced the white stone table, sharing a look of disbelief with Khalil. "What does it mean, Alphin?" he asked, straining his neck as he looked up to the old man towering above.

Alphin stepped closer to the table and leaning over looked more closely, squinting as he traced with a finger almost equal to Pantal's height the fragmented colours of split star-light skittering over the table's surface. He drew a length of white beard through his fingers then shook his head, a look of concern knotting his brow.

Other than their size, Pantal and Khalil could not have been more different. Pantal wore a sharp black suit, a fine silver pin-stripe running through the material. His dark hair, slicked back from his forehead, presented an open expression of concern. Khalil wore leaf green leggings and a mustard yellow tunic, both of them patched with ill-matching scraps of differing colour. Unlike his cousin, Khalil's hair was in disarray, a mess of straw-blond resembling a storm-blown wheat field.

Pantal took in Khalil's rumpled appearance, his sharp nose twitching, and with a note of disapproval said: "you should throw those clothes away."

"And stand here naked?"

"You know what I mean," said Pantal, slowly shaking his head, scowling.

Khalil patted his midriff and examined himself. "Nothing wrong with these."

"For working in fields, yes, but what of the new clothes I gave you when you arrived?"

Khalil smiled. "They're very fine, Pantal, but you failed to take my belly into account. And the material's too stiff."

"Too stiff? They're not too stiff and they fit you fine. They're not supposed to be baggy."

"They're uncomfortable."

Alphin coughed, forcefully. "Gentlemen." Sweeping his right hand over their heads he indicated the light jumping over the surface of the table.

"Sorry," said Khalil smirking, "Pantal always gets tetchy when he's worried."

"I'm not worried, cousin. Merely... concerned."

The gold ring on Alphin's little finger, crowned with a diamond the size of the cousins' heads, captured the refracted light, bent it back from colour to white before casting it around the dimly lit room.

"Well?" Pantal asked Alphin, his face illuminated by the diamond's cast. He raked his fingers through his hair, puffing out his cheeks in exasperation as Alphin contemplatively chewed his lower lip. "Have you an answer? I can't record that which I don't understand."

Alphin removed his half moon glasses, closed his eyes, and stroked his eyelids before replacing the glasses. They slid down, threatening to escape, as he leaned forward. Information was contained there, of that there was no doubt, but, like the overlapping conversation of many people, it was so intermingled that it became a muddle of mere confusion.

"It undoubtedly means something," said Alphin, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

"You don't say?" Khalil raised his brow with mock surprise.

Alphin huffed, standing erect. "I can't decipher it." He glared at Khalil a moment then said: "You should mind your manners young sir. I am, after all, an elder of high status. As such I should have your respect." His austere tone hung in the air like a foreboding weight, until his cheeks drew back and presented a broad smile. "You'll have to go and fetch Hesperus, Khalil. He's at the mines of Razor Ridge investigating a new discovery. Tell him to come at once. I don't know the meaning of this, but it's certainly important. Meet me on the balcony when you're ready."

"And you'll see to transport?"

"Yes, I'll see to it at once. With luck you should be back before dawn. I only hope this anomaly is still present when Hesperus returns."

Pantal continued pacing among the refracted starlight, a quill in one hand, and a roll of parchment in the other, attempting to illustrate rather than translate the phenomenon. Watching Khalil leave the room, Alphin opened the oak chest by the wall and took out a metallic-green horn. A twisting tight spiral, decorated with silver scales, the splayed end of which resembled a dragons head, frozen in mid-roar, the rim ringed with pin-sharp teeth. Alphin turned it over in his palm, brushing the ornate detail with his thumb, and cast a quick glance at the troubling light before nodding to Pantal and heading for the door which led out to the balcony.

"Wait!" Pantal called. "I may have something. The golden shards in my illustration seem to resemble words. Da Vran, I think it says. The words belong to no language I know, but the 'Da' would likely be a definite or indefinite article - the or a or an \- similar to the Onktor's Lu. As in, lu larua - the moon, li larua - a moon."

"Not sure it helps much. What about... Vran?"

"Yes, Vran." Pantal tugged his ear lobe as he was want to do when in deep concentration. "I don't know, but it might mean something to Hesperus."

"Let us hope," Alphin said, exiting the room.

Outside, Alphin placed the horn to his lips and blew. Scaled lids curled back to reveal eyes of amber stone. The iris grew from a narrow slit into a perfect circle. The longer he blew the wider it got, until the entire eye had turned black. It emitted no sound, but cast a spiralling ripple of air over waves that smashed against the rocks below. High on the cliff's edge, emitting a strong smell of deep-ocean, stranded seaweed dried and told of the recent storm.

Alphin took care to give one long steady blow, the correct signal for the size of dragon needed. Khalil was only four inches in height so, thankfully, a large dragon was not necessary. Alphin went back into the room and returned with a small bottle and a silver dish. He placed both items on the wall and sat by them, peering into the night sky.

"Have you sent the request?" Kahlil enquired, as he walked the balcony wall massaging in turn each arm.

Alphin nodded that he had. "Did you apply the salve carefully?"

"Of course." Khalil's eyes opened wide, as if such a question needed to be asked. "Do you think I'd risk those poisonous scales unprotected?"

"Ah, here's one already."

Khalil followed Alphin's gaze into the sky. Patchy cloud drifted slowly across the half moon and a fluttering black speck, looking nothing more than a leaf on a breeze, flashed in and out of view.

"I'm glad this didn't happen last night," said Khalil, as he pulled on the protective gloves. "Never seen a storm like it."

Khalil glanced down at the Bodhitaru tree nurtured by Hesperus from the seed of knowledge presented at his appointment. The trunk, twisted as if writhing in agony, was blackened and split where last night's lightning had struck. Sap rendered molten in the heat had collected into solidified puddles around its gnarled roots, each one reflecting its own moon.

Alphin removed the stopper from the bottle and tipped it over the silver bowl. Amber fluid flowed out and cast a vapour which twisted into the air, capturing the dragon and drawing it in. Landing by the silver bowl it tucked in its wings and stretched out its neck. Flicking its barbed tail, it watched Khalil and Alphin, its scales flickering red and green iridescence as it lapped.

"Beautiful creatures. Had a go at training one myself when I was seventeen." Alphin chuckled. "Got badly burnt too."

"I didn't know you had an interest in dragon training."

"There's many things a person doesn't know of others. Indeed, there are often things one doesn't know of oneself. It would have been..." Alphin's mouth twitched in time with the arithmetic in his head. "Around two hundred years ago, in southern scar, where they breed. There was a violent storm. Like last night. The next day I wandered the lower reaches of Great Scar and came across a young dragon. I thought it must have fallen from the sky, perhaps blown off course in the storm during migration. I had the foolish idea that I could train it, so I hid it in the nearby woods.

"For weeks all went well. The dragon grew surprisingly large, but seemed to pay attention to my words. How naive I was. One day the dragon wandered into the village destroying crops and houses, some only just repaired from the storm. Fortunately, because it was so young and hadn't discovered its fire nobody was killed.

"A dragon trainer was sent for. He nearly fainted on the spot when he saw it was a black dragon."

"A black dragon?"

Alphin smiled. "Yes, I know, stuff of legend. But, they do exist. Creatures of the dark – not of this world. It took Hesperus weeks to sort out that problem."

"Was it killed?"

"No, it was neutralised." Alphin looked inward as if reading distant memories.

"I was banished from the village. Had it not been for Hesperus... well, I dread to think. Said he saw something in me. Took me as his apprentice. As a result I've now lived one hundred and forty-seven years beyond my natural seventy."

Khalil blew at the thought. A creature of the dark: a black dragon: a creature from another world. A look of realisation came into his eyes. "Alphin, shouldn't you cancel the call? I believe we only need one dragon!".

"Oh yes."

Alphin raised the horn to his lips and sucked silent spiralling air from the night sky. The iris contracted into a narrow black slit revealing the bright amber stone. The eye-lid snapped shut with a metallic ting.

"So, what was it Hesperus saw?"

"Saw?"

"In you?"

"Oh. Said I was destined to be a Keeper. Must be, he said, if I could spend weeks with a creature of the dark and not be consumed by its force. I think he suspected I may have been and merely wanted to keep an eye on me, just in case."

"Why've you never mentioned this before?"

"Shame more reason than any. I raised a creature of the dark that could easily have killed all in my village. Some suspected I had been consumed by its evil and was merely hiding it well. They thought I was under its influence and control – its puppet so to speak."

"Khalil mounted the dragon, a perfect size of around fourteen inches in length. As it lapped the amber liquid, knowing he would soon be leaving Khalil asked Alphin if he had any last instructions.

"Tell Hesperus the stars appear to say the words, Da Vran," Alphin said, looking skyward. "We don't know what it means, but maybe it'll mean something to him."

Lapping the last drop of nectar, the dragon raised its elegant neck and began skitting around, rearing like a highly strung horse. Whips of yellow flame erupted from its flared nostrils, licking the smooth stone, leaving trails of soot. Khalil tapped its left flank and turned it to face Alphin.

"How much nectar did you give? This dragon's like a volcano fit to explode."

"I need you to make good speed. Now get going."

Five

The dragon reared up so high that Khalil almost fell. He squeezed his legs and braced himself as the dragon unfurled its wings and shot into the darkness, cutting through the air like a silent arrow. Khalil glanced overhead at the myriad of stars which filled the sky. A faint, shimmering, multi-coloured curtain, normally invisible to the naked eye, drifted amongst their brilliance.

The sea swelled beneath him, moonlight gilding silver the crest of each wave. Now they were travelling, Khalil was at one with the dragon – encapsulated in a bubble of magical protection – with no danger of falling. In the distance, as the mainland approached, he could hear the ocean's turmoil, a current of unrest from the recent storm still smashing violently the seemingly strong, immovable rock.

Whooshing past the tall cliff-face, the silver glow of the moon now fell on undulating land, its mercurial glare casting a fast moving, silent shadow of the small dragon. In the far distance the sharp peaks of razor ridge came into view, its highest peak capped with snow, dwarfing all other mountains and housing the mine that was his destination.

He slowed as he got close and noted that the entrance was busy, men hurrying this way and that. Khalil hovered above them, searching for Hesperus. He was nowhere in sight and so, spotting a man shouting orders and pointing in various directions, Khalil steered the dragon into a descent.

"Greetings," Khalil yelled, hovering just beyond the man's shoulder.

The man turned toward the voice and had to look twice. He leaned back as if trying to focus. "Er – greetings yerself," he uttered.

"I'm Khalil, record taker and messenger in the service of Hesperus. Could you tell me where I might find him?"

"Fraid you be out a luck, little fellow. He's gone."

Khalil sniffed with annoyance. Little fellow indeed. "Where?"

"Left for Hob's Head this mornin. Somethin bout an uprising."

"Hob's Head, right." Khalil tapped the dragon's flank and braced in readiness for flight.

"Hang on a mo, you'd best try Zigureck first. He'd likely stay there for the night. When you find him, give him a message. Tell him the tremor opened up a network o' passages, and that they run much deeper than those he's already seen. A large cavern at the bottom which must once have been rich in veridium. He wanted to know if we found anything out o' the ord'nary."

Khalil set off at once, uttering a rushed thank you as he soared into the sky, heading north for Zigureck.

After much searching of the village, Khalil spotted Hesperus in a hostelry window. Landing the dragon on the ledge he told it to hide and await his return. The dragon masked itself with vapours, which, to an untrained eye, simply looked like fog. Khalil rapped on the glass.

"What're you doing here?" Hesperus enquired, opening the window, allowing Khalil to enter.

"I've a message from Alphin, about changes in the stars. He couldn't decipher its meaning."

Chuckling, as if he had heard a joke, Hesperus closed the window, lifted Khalil onto the table and picked up a jug. "Have a measure of this. It really is excellent."

"Alphin wanted you to return immediately. Thought you should see the strange phenomenon for yourself."

"The strange phenomenon." Hesperus poured the drink into a silver goblet, steam coiling as it flowed. He waved a hand over the goblet, shrinking it to Khalil size. "Tell me, has the gentle undulation of colour been replaced by erratic confusion?"

"Yes! That's it exactly. How did you–?"

"I have eyes. The stars are up above, and so too are the signs of change. Away from the observatory I can't read the finer details. None-the-less, there's no need for panic. Now, do join me in some of this delightful beverage."

Khalil cupped the warm goblet in his cold hands. "Pantal deciphered something from it," he said, taking a sip, smacking his lips. "Two words: Da Vran."

"Da Vran?" Hesperus searched his memory then shook his head. "Any idea of the meaning?"

Khalil swiped a hand across his mouth and wiped it on his mustard tunic, leaving a red stain. "No. But it wasn't a proper deciphering, more a pattern in the golden segment which wrote out the letters."

"Unusual! Da Vran... Da Vran?"

To the side a large fire popped and crackled and cast dancing shadows around the room.

"The nights are very cold in these parts," said Khalil shivering as the last measure of cold left his flesh.

"Indeed. And the days just as hot in contrast."

Khalil was thinking the room comfortably cozy, until he noticed a man staring at him from a shaded corner. Under a lowered brow, his eyes seemed black hollows, his features looked sharply sinister, and wavered in the yellow light cast by the dancing flames.

"I do enjoy warm berry-wine by a fire." Hesperus wiped red droplets from the silky white hairs around his mouth.

Khalil wrenched his gaze away from the man. "What should I tell Alphin?" Khalil let his eyes travel back to the man and beyond, as if just taking in his surroundings. The man was still glaring. Shifting his weight Khalil took a sip of berry-wine and looked at Hesperus.

"It means the balance is tipping, and, I think, not in our favour. A significant change is in progress, Khalil. Possibly a traveller. Perhaps the one mentioned in prophecy. Maybe that's what Da Vran means – the traveller."

"I thought that was only a story to scare children into behaving: Mind your manners or I'll send you to the dark side – stuff like that – you'd best pray the traveller comes to save you. Do you really think a traveller from another world is going to save us all. And from what? There's no sign of danger."

"Not another world, exactly. And there are signs. The stars for one, and unrest in the south."

"A man at the mine mentioned an uprising."

"Hob's head. It'll be the usual: jealousy and intolerance, disputes over land or some such thing. It's happening more frequently, so much so that I suspect our world is being influenced by the far reaching hand of darkness. The balance is tipping as indicated in prophesy. If it should tip the wrong way."

"So you do believe a traveller will come and save us all?"

"I try to not fear shadows that haven't been cast. If we can settle the balance there'll be no shadow to fear and nobody need be any the wiser."

"And if it can't be settled?"

Hesperus raised his brow and rolled the warm goblet between his palms. "A wise man should look down all avenues before deciding which route to take. I don't know whether the prophecy should be taken word for word or not. But, if the balance does tip, I do believe a traveller from beyond the boundary will be instrumental in saving our world. Maybe someone evil, someone who simply pushes us into taking a course of action we otherwise would not have taken. Maybe the exact opposite. Prophesy is so full of ambiguity that it may as well not exist at all."

Khalil cast a glance at the man in the shadows and found him glaring still. "The traveller, then, is like a bug that will infect a tree. I imagine we'll have to find it and crush it."

"Will we?"

"Well, yes. Before it spreads its disease and kills the entire forest. Won't we?" Khalil emptied his goblet and scowled at the man as he placed it heavily onto the table.

"What if this metaphorical bug does not spread disease, but carries a parasite? Shouldn't we let the bug live and remove the parasite? Or what if we destroy the bug and that very bug would actually have been instrumental in saving the forest, even inadvertently? Maybe it would have caused the death of a much worse bug."

"I didn't think of it that way."

"Things are seldom as simple as they appear to be, my friend."

A loud cheer filled the room as a busty woman walked through carrying roast boar on a silver platter. The smell of charred flesh drifted into Khalil's nostrils as greedy hands grabbed portions of the meat.

The woman juggled the tray, her breasts like round jellies wobbling on the edge. "Hold your horses," she said. "There be plenty for all."

"Hold your arses," someone cried, and the woman squealed, almost dropping the tray as she whipped her head and looked behind.

"Is it horse?" shouted someone at the back of the room. "I like horse."

"I like arse, too."

The woman squealed again and set the tray down. "You're a dirty old man Jedra Wilkes," she snapped, smiling despite the scorn in her voice, as she playfully slapped the old man behind her. "You having some Abnal?" she said offering the tray to the man who continued to glare at Khalil.

"People in these parts are barbarians!" said Khalil as he stared back at Abnal, propping up the bar, his teeth sinking into a chunk of meat, hot grease slicking his lips and running down his chin, glistening on his chubby fingers. "That man over there, Abnal his friend called him, he's not once taken his eye off me. It's as if I shouldn't even be in here. If that's the kind of intolerance you meant, I think you should crush them like bugs."

"If only it were so easy, my friend. People of these parts have always been envious of what others have, but the venom in their anger has never been so potent. It's being stirred into fury by a dark and far reaching hand. I'm happy for them to live as they will, as long as they leave others to do the same. Unfortunately they begrudge people such as yourself and those of the Onktor race that right. They have little veridium and are more easily influenced by the dark hand from beyond the boundary." Hesperus turned and held Abnal's gaze until this time it was Abnal who looked away.

Abnal tossed the stripped bone onto the counter, paid the bartender, whispered into Jedra's ear then slapped him on the back before he departed.

"That reminds me," said Khalil. "They've found a cavern at the mine where large quantities of veridium have been extracted."

Hesperus nodded, stroking a thumb along his jaw. "That is a concern, but not the main one. At the mine I found pure seams of golden-veridium and black-carsiculite nestling side by side."

"Surely that's impossible."

"Times are changing my friend; times are changing."

"I've always thought they couldn't mix?"

"They can't, not really. One fuels good, the other evil. Unless they're in balance, absolute perfect balance, the one of greater quantity will always consume the other. That's why our world was split in the first place. There shouldn't even be carsiculite in this world. It makes me wonder if the missing veridium you mention is in the other."

Hesperus looked out the window at the swirling mix of moonlight and dragon fume. "Your ride gets restless," he said. "Perhaps you'd best be on your way. Tell Alphin the changes in the stars are of little concern. Tell him to return to... no, tell him to await my return. I think there'll be a lot of records to take in the near future."
Six

Hesperus stood atop the hill, flags of white hair flapping in the hot wind, looking down on the village of Hob's head. With skeletal fingers he pulled hair from his face, cast a stoical glance skyward and released a heavy sigh. He firmed his jaw and made a start down the dusty track, passing houses where unseen eyes peered through glass-less windows.

Beyond the clear blue a rippling mix of delicate colour wandered in and out of focus: an as yet un-deciphered message from the stars that had wavered all week – stronger by night than by day. Most think stars disappear in the day, Hesperus considered, believing only what they see with their eyes. They refuse to open their minds, to have faith in what can't be seen.

Therein was the task he faced: opening minds to unseen possibilities. He rounded a corner and entered the central square to face a milling crowd. Gathered like snakes in a tangled knot, expecting trouble, pulling each other the wrong way, they tightened their conviction with every tug. "Times are changing," he muttered to the dust cloud settling around his feet.

A man at the head of the crowd locked eyes with Hesperus. "I told you he be coming," he growled. "Didn't I tell you he be coming?"

Abnal, Hesperus thought: the man from the hostelry who had glared at Khalil. He must have set out early. Hesperus had set a fast pace himself. The crowd muttered and cursed, their necks straining for a better look at the Keeper-of-Knowledge. Hesperus stood before them, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his fingers toying with the heavy gold ring that adorned his middle finger. The jewel flickered from white to blue to green to red, before settling on a resolute black. Hesperus lit his face with the warmest of smiles, ignoring the meandering emotions that influenced the hidden jewel, and said, "Greetings," with the cheeriest of notes he could muster.

"We're not scared of you," Abnal snarled.

"Why should you be?" Hesperus scanned the square. Around two hundred people had gathered, many of them armed with axes and scythes. "You have many hands with which to fight. I have only two."

He raised his arms, shaking his hands, drawing attention to them. His sleeves fell and merged with folds of empty skin.

"Keepers wield magic." A woman cried, her tempestuous red hair as wild looking as her eyes. "Everybody knows that."

"Nonsense." Hesperus chuckled, flicking his wrist, casting the comment away as if it were an irritating fly. "Stuff and nonsense. Superstition from times of old!"

"Listen not," shouted the woman, turning to the crowd. "Tricks o' the mind be the easiest magic to cast. Him be crafty y'know."

People nodded in agreement, some edged back, jeering and raising their weapons as they went. Hesperus shuffled his feet in the red dust and glanced skyward. The coloured gossamer curtain billowed through the blue expanse. The stars are there but they can't be seen. His brow wrinkled as he sucked on a thought.

"I'm just an old man," he said, scanning the crowd, raising his arms once more, the loose cuffs sliding down. "I have no tricks up my sleeve, only wise words in my head and compassion in my heart." Hesperus tapped his chest with a lightly clenched fist.

"Clever words meant to deceive," she screeched, hair flaming in the sun as she turned from side to side. "Tricksy words to get us to lower our weapons, giving you chance to cast your magic."

Hesperus tightened his fist, his sharp knuckles standing white, as he placed his hands behind his back and cast a smile over the mob.

"He's crafty," Abnal yelled. "Saw him plotting with one o'them little people, just last night."

The red-haired woman nodded in agreement. "Aye, him be crafty alryte. All them of magic be the same."

"If I could cast magic would I stand before you exchanging words?"

Abnal glared in silence. The crowd behind him murmured.

"Tell me Abnal," said Hesperus. "What's your family name?"

"Stratkin." The man suddenly looked less sure of himself. He glanced at the red-haired woman, paused questioningly then returned his gaze to the eyes of the keeper.

That glance and pause told Hesperus much. The Keeper had not reacted as expected; had not reacted as the red-haired woman had likely said he would.

"Stratkin. A fine, strong name. Old family name. Farmers, for decades, I believe. Good ones. Abnal, do you speak for the people of these parts?"

Accepting the compliment Abnal inflated his chest and folded his arms. "We each be speaking for ourselves; no leaders round these parts. Each to his own to look after his own is what I say, and I will have vengence."

"Vengence! For what?" Hesperus demanded. "On whom?"

Abnal stood tall, defiant. "A dragon, and the wielder of magic that sent it. My brother be working the fields by the estuary. Then, out of the sky swoops this large dragon, silent as a shadow." Abnal faced the crowd and played them like a puppeteer. "Never had a chance. Swallowed whole he was. Not a bone of him left to bury."

"Aye, it be a bad omen, alryte, when even a bone can't be buried. Him spirit can't rest." The flame haired woman glowered at Hesperus, a spark in her eye implying the imperative, answer that.

The crowd were once again riled. With a confident air, Abnal shouted, "Dragons are dangerous, full of magic, big n small alike. Should be slain, every last one." His voice rose to a fevered shriek, spittle flying on his words, his face red with fury.

The crowd jeered and yelled, raising clenched fists and weapons.

"Him be enhanced by magic too. Maybe him should be slain?"

The flame haired woman licked her lips as she slid her gaze over Hesperus' body. Slightly uneased he fiddled with the jewel on his ring. For some reason the woman did not fear him in the slightest. Even Abnal's aggression, fuelled with righteous conviction, had an edge of fear. Hesperus glanced at the sky, contemplating a spell. A temporary amnesia might suffice, a conjuration he could cast with little evidence. He converged his energy, focused his intent, and ready to cast, let his gaze fall. The flame haired woman was gone. In her place stood a squat, middle-aged woman with wavy dull-brown hair. Had the flame haired woman changed into this one? Or had she fled? He coughed to mask his surprise and turned to face Abnal. This was not what he had expected; a land dispute possibly, but not this. Dragon's generally stayed away from man.

"The dragon which killed your brother, could you describe it?"

"It be huge." Abnal's eyes grew wide, as if he were picturing it. "Had an awful stench too – like... rotten fish. And it be as dark as its own filthy shadow."

"Dark! How dark?"

"Black as pitch."

"Black! Are you sure it was black, not dark red, or...?"

"Black I said, and black I meant."

The ring's jewel wavered through a multitude of colours as the implications raced through the keeper's mind.

"Black as the magic in its veins. Death to dragons," Abnal shouted.

"Death to dragons," the mob echoed.

This was a worry, if true; one he would deal with. There was little point trying to reason with these people. Hesperus turned, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to walk away, his fingers worrying the jet-black jewel.

Dust raised by his first step had hardly settled when the squat woman called out to him. Hesperus stopped but did not turn. He did however open his ears and his heart.

"Old man. Keeper. My children. They play in them fields. Will you do nothing?"

Hesperus turned slowly, his face emotionless, his jewel coloured the orange of compassion.

"I came to listen, to help. But you people don't hear my words. Even the most compassionate cannot help those who will not be helped." Rows of sorrowful eyes looked back in silence. "I'll deal with the black dragon. You have my word on that. Do I have your word that this trouble will end here. Or do you wish to tell me what else troubles you – Abnal?"

Muttering trickled through the crowd. It seems they were only here because of the dragon.

"Well, Abnal?"

Abnal lowered his eyes.

"Very well, I'll hazard a guess. How were your crops this year?"

"My crops failed," Abnal muttered. "The soil has grown poor."

"This I know." Hesperus kicked at the ground, raising a cloud of red dust. "But is it the fault of the Onktor people whom you wish to wage war upon?"

Abnal reeled back in astonishment. "How...? How did you know? I told no other of our plan. More magic by the old man, see? See what he does?" Abnal scanned the crowd. This time they did not lend their support. Meeting silent stares Abnal slumped into self-pity.

"Not magic at all, Abnal, merely logic. It's common knowledge that the Onktors are excellent farmers, that their crops are plentiful. They're also a peaceful species and under the 'agreement of borders' they're protected from the threat of war."

Muttering rippled through the crowd. They may have come here about the dragon, but it was apparent that some sympathy went with Abnal. Hesperus wondered if they were aware of other uprisings to the west, close to the Onktor's land. Abnal had said our plan. He must mean those from outlying areas intent on amassing more to their numbers. Abnal must be their first contact, then, and he has not yet had chance to spread the word. Maybe, Hesperus thought, this is one region which I can divert from the trouble.

"I will not allow this incident with the dragon to be used as a lever to destroy peace. If you people threaten to wage war on the Onktors then the weight of all society will fall on you. You will be crushed into the dust where you now stand. Maybe your blood will make it fertile."

The crowd stood in silence.

Hesperus nodded gently. "If their land were to become yours, Abnal, what do you suppose would become of it? I'll tell you. In but a few years it would be as infertile as the scrub where you presently plant your crops. The Onktors don't enjoy plentiful crops because they have the luck to reside where the soil is fertile. The soil they work is fertile because they make it so. They enlist the help of dragons. They know how to care for the land. They work hard at putting back as much as they take out, whereas you... you kick at dust and allow your heart to pump hatred.

"With the 'agreement of borders' comes the sharing of knowledge. If they were not afraid of being killed, they would be willing to travel here and show you how to care for the soil. How to get the most from it. How to put back what is taken out."

Hesperus looked around. It seemed his words, for once, had not fallen on deaf ears. Bless the stars, even their minds appeared to be open. They may have seen the jewels of the sky at last, he thought, as the jewel of his ring showed transparency. So it was a border dispute after all.

"Agree to the pact. Think on it. I'll see to the black dragon and return by the next full moon. I will expect an answer."

Hesperus turned and walked without another word, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, fiddling with the ring, the jewel of which flickered from black to deep-red.

A black dragon.

"Curse the stars," he muttered. "A Keeper's life overflows with problems." He glanced up at the billowing gossamer veil wavering across the clear sky as angry red dust floated in his falling steps. Briefly, he saw the letters Khalil had mentioned – Da Vran – but he saw it as one word, Davran, and fancied it was a name.
Seven

The flame-haired woman stared blankly, her eyes as deathly white as her complexion.

"Him be a tricksy one, alryte," she said, her voice as raspy as a ragged blade. The fire behind her roared as wind blew through the cave, its flames licking the roof and glimmering through her wild hair, making it look as if her head was actually aflame. "Aye, him be tricksy." She nodded as if in answer to herself, as she glanced at the charcoal drawing to her left – crisp lines demonstrating its recent creation – depicting an old man standing before an angry looking mob. She reached across, her eyes wide, as if captured by something of import, and added another detail. "Him have a ring."

The cave walls were covered with charcoal drawings. Some of them, years old, were faded, smudged, or overlapped by other more recent drawings.

"And you're certain he could conjure magic?" Saurian enquired, switching his gaze from the woman to the drawing.

"Aye, him be able to conjure alryte. Him deny it, hold it back, but him can do it. Was gonna cast on I, so I return. Be stuck in the void 'tween worlds else. No way t'scape that. No way back. from 'tween worlds."

The child at Saurian's feet sobbed. "Please sir, can I go home now?" she dared to ask, a tremor in her voice.

Saurian backhanded her. As she fell back he grabbed her throat and squeezed until she passed out. He turned to his right, his face a picture of irritation, and beckoned Skappstekker to approach. "When I say make certain they are quiet don't just threaten them. Cut out the tongue." Turning back to the woman, Saurian rolled his eyes. "Did you get any useful information?"

"NO! I tell ya, him be gifted – mighty gifted. Him deny, but me know. Couldn't enter him brain or him know I for what I be. Then him have I trapped in the void. I better serve yee by infectin' others wi' yer poison than livin' in da void. No comin' back from there. No coming back from 'tween worlds, mind nor body."

Saurian flexed his jaw. Here was a gifted man on the other side of the boundary attempting to undermine his efforts and, for now at least, he could not touch him. He drew a deep breath and nodded at Grizzle's rational. "But the uprising is going well?"

"Aye, rot be settin' in. Like cancer it be growin', spreadin' it tentacles. Him maybe stop da one there." Grizzle indicated the picture with a nod of her head. "But me soon get it goin' again. Fire start easy on smolderin' embers y'know."

Saurian gave a broad smile and looked beyond Grizzle at the rock directly above the fire. "What about that one?" he asked, striding past her. "It's changed since last I saw it."

Grizzle stood as best she could and followed Saurian, her stoop so bad that her shoulders rose not much higher than her hips. "That one be tricksy. Evades me mind. Me not get more detail yet." She reached out with the charcoal lump, her hand shaking, nails like talons gripping the medium, and added a little shading on the raised sinew of the foot. The detail she'd added, small as it was, made a huge difference. The foot now seemed to contain more energy, seemed more alive.

This drawing that had entranced Saurian for fifteen years had so much more detail than the rest. All the others were quick sketches, outlines mostly, a little cross-hatching to define depth of field. But this one, the one Saurian stared at with such intent, the one that had built over time, was drawn life size and shaded with such intricate detail that as the flickering flames danced over it, it seemed almost to breathe. It was drawn as if floating, its head at the pinnacle of the cave roof, its hips just above Saurian's shoulders. Saurian looked at Grizzle, her head bobbing, and wondered how she had managed to reach so high. The witch obviously had more power remaining than he gave her credit for. It was of little concern. He turned his attention back to the picture. Its posture had recently become more defiant: arms rigid by its side, slightly elevated, fists clenched, shoulders held back. The right leg was bent, the knee at waist height. The left foot was raised on its toes, as if the figure were about to leap over the flames. The chest, thrust forward displayed the pert breasts of a girl just coming into maturity. It was between the legs that Saurian focused though, for the drawing had both male and female organs. In this area there was little detail, as if viewed through mist, as if drawn with uncertainty.

Saurian tapped the area while looking down into Grizzle's blank eyes. "Why do you always draw it like that?"

"It be the way I sees it. For fifteen years now that vision enter I mind. I tell this plenty times, it no dif'rent just cause you ask anew. Been that way since me draw it when it a baby, an ever time I see it new, ever time I see it older, it be same. Me visions come from visitin' de minds of others; not always know who; image just 'appen. What them see I see. So, that be how them sees it."

Saurian stared through the picture to the soft not-quite-erased images behind, the many alterations Grizzle had made as her vision grew. Never before had she drawn it looking so defiant, so free of spirit, so animated, so alive.

The child whimpered as she roused and tried to sit. Saurian glanced across and Skappstekker kicked her in the gut.

"Keep quiet," he growled, flashing a knife before her face, waggling his tongue.

Saurian's eyes climbed the wall and he craned his neck to see the face. As ever it was blank.

"You still don't see the face?"

"It be masked from I, like always. Powerful magic. Prophesy. This one be instrumental in somethin' big, alryte. It be protected by sommin strong."

Grizzle tapped Saurian on the chest with her charcoal and as he turned away from the drawing he found her floating, her face level with his. "You need be cautious o' this one."

Saurian sniffed, twisting his expression with derision. "It's never had this defiant posture before. Why now?"

"Me tell you, already," Grizzle replied in a slightly exasperated tone as she drifted back to ground. "Me draw as me see. Sometime it an event an me can maybe enter the mind of one there. Then, may happen, me hear them speak an me know why it significant. But sometime it just an image me get. Me don't know why. Me don't question. Me just draw. Me don't even think on it. Me hand just take over and draw. Me suspect this drawin' now influenced by it own mind. It feel strong me think. It mind its own now. It feel powerful. It feel free."

Saurian sniffed and rolled his head, emitting a crack from his neck.

"Me think... maybe it travelled over. Aye..." Grizzle nodded slowly and her thoughts seemed to drift elsewhere. "Seem a dragon has from what that Abnal say. May happen this one travel too."

Saurian firmed his jaw and stared at the blank face. "Let me know if you get anything else. Let me know at once."

"Aye, me always do." Grizzle grimaced as she craned her neck to look into Saurian's face. Her lips parted in a straight narrow smile. Her teeth, a row of tiny points glinted in the fire light. "Can me have me supper now?"

"Yes. Skappstekker."

Grizzle spun on the spot and clapped her hands like an exuberant child as she faced Skappstekker. "Good you left the tongue. I'll eat that first."
Eight

The conflict of balance was even greater than Hesperus had suspected; had to be for a black dragon to cross the mesh between this world and the dark one to which it belonged. It would be cautious, not realising that in this world there was very little threat to it. But if it were to become aware of the fact!

Hesperus blew into the wind.

Looking into the jewel of his ring Hesperus focused his mind on the image of a black dragon. The jewel flickered with swirls of white light. A blue glow streamed from its surface and settled, like a globe of illuminated glass above his hand. As he focused an image began to appear within: a mountain range tipped with ice, before it a vast wasteland of torn, craggy rock. The image began to shift, focusing on a single point.

"Grey Scar," he muttered aloud, "where else would a Dragon hide."

Hesperus allowed the image in the blue globe to zoom out, to get a better fix on the exact location. Keeping his eyes locked on the mountain peak, he allowed the scene to reduce dramatically in size. As it shrank he could see the capital city, Santaxiom, further still Clapstone came into view. That was all he needed, three points. He had a trajectory. Fine adjustments could be made later.

As the old man's brow furrowed in concentration, the hue of the jewel changed. It radiated a blinding white light which grew to eventually encapsulate him. Red dust on the path swirled around his feet. In a brilliant flash of ultra-violet Hesperus was gone, disturbed dust settling on his footprints.

* * *

The wind howled on the highest reaches of Grey Scar, whirling around Hesperus, thankfully protected by the globe of warm air that had travelled from his place of origin. Red dust settled at his feet and stood in stark contrast to ice crusted snow. The mountain rippled as if viewed through thick liquid. He smelled in the air brimstone and freshly burnt carbon, evidence that the dragon was close by.

Hesperus rounded a corner and in a pool of snow-melt saw the charred remains of what he assumed to be Abnal's cousin. As suspected, the body had been carried away to be consumed later. Seems dragons are the same wherever they come from, Hesperus mused, in that they eat only carbon, finding it impossible to digest anything else, the very reason large dragons prefer to eat trees, why they present such little threat to man, and why they are so rarely seen. So why did this one burn a man for food rather than a tree?

He would have to think on it later.

A silent shadow swept across the rock face to his right. He heard music in the silent flight and quickly moved away from the body. The shadow grew in size, its song a rising volume, stealing light, as it descended and landed with surprising grace. Immediately it set about devouring its prepared meal.

"That'll be the last human meal you eat in this world my friend."

The dragon swept its mighty bulk around. Bright sunlight caught its metallic scales and reflected the dark silvery sheen of pewter. Hesperus ran through his mind what he already knew. The scales were metal, of a kind, totally impervious to any man-made weapon – conventional or magical. A sword, if thrust hard enough, would shatter on contact. Any magic he cast would bounce back like an image from a mirror. His magic could only defend; it had to defeat itself.

Vibrant green eyes watched the old man with suspicion. Its head swung slightly from side to side, as if it was trying to force the rippling form into focus. Its chest expanded as its neck coiled back. Hesperus knew what was coming and concentrated on his protective cloak of dense air. The dragon dislocated its wings and began working its flight muscles, generating heat. Enough in reserve, the dragon's head snapped forward as its chest contracted. White hot flame erupted through a grill of rapier like teeth and engulfed Hesperus's globe of air. It licked around the rippling ball and exploded into a flash of yellow on the rock behind. A coating of soot smouldered on the cliff face, and traced the shape of a perfect, man-sized, circle of clean stone.

The dragon reeled back, tilting its head in confusion. Hesperus stood before it, a smirk on his face. Brushing his sleeves up to his elbows he folded his arms and sat on a smooth rock. This was going to take some time.

Soon over its shock the dragon leapt for the old man. Hesperus was cast into shadow as the mighty creature loomed. Its huge mouth opened wide and with the force of a falling boulder clamped down on the old man. When the jaws came into contact with the rippling ball Hesperus tensed his muscles in defence. The ball of air stiffened; the rippling ceased; the wavering movement stopped. It was replaced by a hard replication of the surrounding scene, the ball acting like a perfect mirror reflecting without flaw the sky above, the rocks all around, the inside of the dragon's mouth.

As it bit down a harsh shudder shocked through the black creature's body. It reeled back in pain. A thunderous howling echoed through the mountain tops. Small fragments of stone streamed down the rock face. On the lower reaches an avalanche groaned into a slide. The globe of air rippled transparent and revealed the image of the old man sitting on the rock. Raking his long hair with slender fingers, he watched quietly as the dragon rolled in agony. Its roar shook the ground. Rock slid down the cliff face. Rolling boulders bounced off the ball of air and crashed down the sheer drop, exploding, unseen, in clouds of cascading ice.

"Not used to pain, are you my friend?" Hesperus leaned forward, casually stroking his jaw, his free hand cupping his elbow.

Hearing the voice the dragon leapt back to its feet and reared up, its great jaws opening wide. Some teeth were shattered and blood oozed from its black gums. Hesperus tensed. The titanium-like shell reflected the attack. The same jarring shudder swept through the dragon's body and once more it reeled back in writhing agony, staggering from side to side, scraping huge chunks of rock from the cliff wall as it brushed past. Boulders crashed down with explosive impact, as if the mountain were echoing the creature's pain.

"I suggest you don't try that again. You've precious few teeth left."

Throughout the day and into the night the dragon attacked, but to no avail. Hesperus sat on his rock, waiting, biding his time.

As the first glimmer of dawn speared crimson arrows through cliff tops the dragon collapsed. Orange sunlight reflected off the silver-black scales and lit the surrounding rocks. Like light bouncing off moving water it rose and fell in time with the dragon's laboured breathing. Hesperus stood and made his way over to the beast, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, a look of compassion lighting his old face. The dragon eyed him suspiciously through almost lifeless green eyes as he crouched by the side of its huge head.

"Time to take you elsewhere. The dragon trainers will deal with you now you're broken. I do believe you'll make a magnificent golden dragon, once that evil is flushed out."

Hesperus took a small silk pouch from his pocket and poured a fine golden stream of powdered veridium into his palm to the sound of a thousand tiny bells. It flowed as if liquid along the creases of his skin, forming a pool in the cup of his hand. Hesperus tipped it onto the dragon's black tongue, hanging loose and limp from its mouth. As the powder landed it dissolved. The black beast shuddered as if feeling an icy blast. Golden light rippled, from head to tail, through its silver-black armour. As the flickering light faded the scales were not so black; they had a certain brightness about them: a glimmering sheen as if some ingrained dirt had been washed away.

"That should help you for now." And make you susceptible to my cast of magic.

The dragon looked up at him with an open expression of confusion. Hesperus knew what it was thinking. It had expected death, instead he had removed its pain.
Nine

The heat prickled Davran's face, as she looked up, open-mouthed, at what must surely be rainbows. They must be, she determined, relishing the cool spray of a slender waterfall. She backed into the shade of a willow and marvelled at sparkling topaz rays shimmering through the leaves.

Every inch of her skin tingled. Every sense of her body seemed elevated. Kneeling on ground padded with an expanse of green she scooped water with her hands and drank. Cold and refreshing, it was unlike anything she had ever tasted before.

It was too real to be a dream.

Davran craned her neck to look up the tall cliff face, squinting against the clear blue sky. Laughing, she jumped to her feet and twirled, her eyes fixed on the myriad of colourful arcs floating in the mist-enveloped column of water.

"This is the place." Half-laughing, half-crying, her arms held rigid by her side, fists clenched and shoulders held back in defiance of anything that might dare to remove her from such a wondrous discovery, she took a leap for joy, the willow's whispering leaves brushing her cheeks.

Wrenching her gaze from the arcs of colour, her eyes getting more used to the brightness, she scanned the landscape. Rolling hills and trees ran into the distance as far as she could see. Edging the horizon were purple mountains tipped with a crust of white.

She drew the rustling branches aside and ventured out into the open. No dry dust, no dreary darkness, no grey, no boiling blood-black shadows, just green – green everywhere.

Shadows!

The thought chimed with Samaq's voice, and came like a shout of warning.

Stick to the shadows – remember that.

Davran dived beneath a heavy bush.

Fear is your friend – remember that.

She flinched at a sharp sound and turned right. A small creature, viridescent blue with a scarlet flash at its throat, took flight and fluttered into the sky. As it climbed, it sounded back in shrill complaint.

"A spy," she gasped.

He has eyes and ears everywhere?

She felt she should run, run fast and hide somewhere distant.

She was captured, though, by the sight of those rainbows. Those rainbows that floated so high up the cliff face. Their presence was a comfort. They were here. She was meant to be here. It was just as Samaq had described. One day you will reach for rainbows. Her mother had always told him not to fill her head with nonsense, but he had simply smiled and winked at her. 'One day, my girl, you will reach for rainbows'. She had to get one. That's why she was here. If I capture a rainbow, things will be better. How she had come to be here she did not know. But here she was. She would go back. She would tell others.

First, she had to capture a rainbow. She needed proof.

* * *

The cliff face had looked an easy climb, slabs of rock like steps, as if purposefully placed for climbing. It all made sense. It was meant to be.

The rainbows didn't want to be caught, though, for as she climbed, they climbed higher.

Exasperated, she paused for breath, then with gritted teeth climbed higher still, desperately faster. The rainbows measured her pace, matching her step for step, taunting her. The stone steps gradually became smaller, narrower and less regular. The rainbows danced in their misty shroud, wavering, sometimes disappearing, only to reappear elsewhere. They teased as she climbed, shrinking back, always keeping out of reach. This was proving more difficult than she could ever have imagined.

The words one day you'll reach for rainbows drove her on. The idea of bringing her mother and father to this wonderful place gave her reason. Her history fed her with courage. She had forgotten something though. A reliable friend, she realised, left behind in her eager haste.

Fear.

Fear came back, slamming her chest and twirling her gut as her foot rolled a loose rock. Her right shoulder wrenching as it took her weight, she crashed hard into the wall. Winded, holding on for dear life, she could only watch as her dislodged knife slipped from her belt. It clattered as it struck rock, and then tumbled through the air. Landing on a bed of clover, it looked like a slender needle in a swath of green cloth.

Fear had certainly joined her now.

It damned her with scorn as rock bit into her fingertips.

What were you thinking, it said.

Look at the fix you're in now.

Her dangling foot weighed heavy as she failed to find purchase. The rainbows wavered beside her, jiggling, seeming to laugh at her foolishness. The slender waterfall, black and cold, surged with manic ferocity. Its motion threatened to drag her down as she watched leaves captured in its torrent. Her head swam as her gaze followed their dive. The bush under which she had hidden looked as small as her fist. She kicked out, frantically lifting her leg to a higher ledge. By some amazing fortune her footing held.

Fear now guided her, drove her need to climb.

She groped her free hand around the unseen and grabbed the trunk of a small gnarled tree. Lifting herself, she saw a wide ledge only a further small climb away.

Fear spotted it.

Fear dragged her up to it.

Fear helped her onto the ledge.

Fear embraced her as she curled into a ball, sobbing against the cliff wall.

As her sobbing gradually ceased fear receded slightly and allowed her to look over the edge. She thought about climbing down until fear reminded her of the height and the narrow escape she'd just had. Fear pointed out the fate of the knife lying small and lifeless in the bed of clover. A vortex of vision wrenched her guts as she edged back, looking away from the undulating floor.

Davran glanced at the mocking rainbows.

Fear is your friend.

Fear kept her from the edge.

Fear stopped her from falling.

Fear is your friend.

Fear had abandoned her in the first place, though, and allowed her to climb. There was more to Samaq's advice: Never let a friend rule you. Fear had saved her from the fall, true, but now it threatened to keep her captive. On this ledge she was only slightly better off than the bodies on the arena wall.

A rumble in her stomach punctuated the need for food. It reminded her of the more important need for drink. On the damp side of the ledge grew a scraping of moss, lush-green from the spray of the waterfall. She teased a beetle from the velvet growth and swallowed it whole. She needed to drink. The golden wheel of the sky baked the top of her head, stroking like a hand of flame. With unseen fingers it clawed at the delicate tissue inside her throat. Samaq had described it as a ball of fire which floated in a clear blue sky. How correct he was. On the ledge there was no shade, no hiding place, no shadows to stick to. Davran knelt and sucked moisture from the moss. It soothed the cutting sensation in her throat, but it was not enough. Arid prickles returned even sharper than before. The slender torrent, just out of reach, flowed past and joined the rainbow's taunt. She sat and stared at them in disgust.

The waterfall continued to drag leaves to a watery doom. They mesmerised her, flicking in and out of view. Their falling motion snagged her eyes. The heat sapped her strength. The shush of passing water seemed a lullaby to which the rhythm of her breath slowed. Her head felt heavy. Her limbs sank into rock and melted on the surface.

Jolting suddenly, she sat up, her head crashing against rock.

Gone!

The rainbows.

Gone!

A cold breeze now chilled her skin. The wheel in the sky had disappeared, had been swallowed by the clear blue as she napped. In the far distance the sky was edged with a dark band.

Davran felt a rise of panic in her gut. She didn't want to stay on the ledge, but was too afraid to climb down. Time passed, as she frequently looked over the edge and constantly shrank away. The dark band was getting bigger, swallowing the pale sky. She was trapped in a place where there was nowhere to hide. The dark band was getting darker, nearer, gradually devouring the bright hues of the landscape with a blanket of black. That encroaching shadow seemed to sing, and the notes it carried evoked a sense of dread. It swallowed whole trees with a cymbal like clash, rows at a time, in its relentless, suffocating, drum-beating advancement.

She had missed her opportunity.

She had failed to capture a rainbow.

The spy from the bush!

It must have reached Saurian's ears.

He's coming.

He's coming and bringing the darkness with him.

She had but one chance. The ledge had formed a slender shadow as the blackness advanced. She would coil into a ball against the slight fold in the rock. Keep to the shadows. She would get some rest, regain some strength, push the imprisoning restraint of fear aside, and attempt to climb back down. Get her knife. Fight. What did she have to lose?

In the sky, directly above, trapped between rock and encroaching blackness, remained a narrow azure band. Within it, Davran spotted something. A fluttering speck.

The spy from the bush!

It was showing Saurian the way.

But no!

It was growing in size.

It was larger, much larger than the spy in the bush had been. This was something else. It must have told Saurian where she was. He was coming to get her. Saurian's coming, she thought, not even daring to contemplate the punishment for attempting to escape from his dark world. He was getting closer. Davran forced her eyes tight. Shuffling back, she attempted to merge into the fold of rock. He was coming and there was nowhere to go. No escape. A tremble captured her body and a stinging trickle warmed her cold legs.

He's coming!

He's coming!

The torrent of water rushed past, and now, beyond it, was another sound: a heavy whoosh, a flap of moving air which grew in volume. Davran hugged her knees. She reached for her knife, but her fingers wrapped around emptiness. Her hair fluttered, stray strands sticking to her damp cheeks. She squeezed her eyes tighter, not daring to look, not wanting to see the wrath in those cold silver-blue eyes.

She wanted to scream, wanted to look, wanted to die with defiance in her eyes. Too afraid, she stayed tightly knotted. The oppressive whoosh rolled over her skin. Davran rocked with terror. He was there, just beyond the ledge. She could feel his presence and thought about leaping to her feet, defiantly jumping to her death. The only thing stopping her was the thought of the dead who cannot die.

If Saurian killed her it would at least be a final end.

She sat and waited with accepted resignation.

"What have we here then?"

The words were unexpected; the tone confusing; the voice soft.

"There's no need to be afraid, she's very tame."

She? Davran uncoiled slightly – allowed her vision a crack of enquiry. Whatever was causing the air to move was also blocking what little light the sky still had. Whatever it was that spoke, it was massive.

"My youngest got stuck on this very same ledge... Looks an easy climb, doesn't it? I told him: don't take anything for granted. Things are rarely as simple as they look. Remember that – I said."

A trick.

He has ears everywhere – remember that! Father's always saying it – remember this, remember that. He said it till she was sick of hearing it. She heard it in her sleep he'd said it so many times.

"You'll have to come to the edge, if I'm to help you."

Davran coiled smaller and shuffled tighter against the rock face.

"Alright then, if you won't come to me, I'll join you."

The battering air felt as if it were beating her down. Something scraped the rock above. Small fragments peppered her arms. She flinched as something thudded onto the ledge. A warm presence settled by her side. The heavy whoosh remained constant but less forceful, she guessed slightly more distant.

"Good view from up here. Well, in the day it is."

Day? What's day?

"In the day you can see my home. Not at night though, it's too dark."

Night? Night is too dark. Day must be light.

"Do you intend to stay here? Only, my wife will have dinner ready and my stomach's already grumbling."

Was it Him?

Couldn't be, he'd just kill me.

Why would he trick me like this?

He'd do it just to see the shock in my eyes when I look into his. Yes that would be cruel, to raise someone's hopes and then crush them. Davran buried her face deep into her arms. If Saurian wanted to kill her it would be without the satisfaction of seeing the fear in her eyes.

She felt a warm hand grip her forearm, softly, and yet there was strength evident. Surely Saurian did not know how to touch like that. The hand moved away. She did not want it to. Her arm felt all the colder for its absence.

"Dinner'll be on the table soon. Pumpkin pie tonight, I shouldn't wonder."

Pumpkin pie?

The man's voice sounded strange and many of his words had no meaning. Davran sneaked a look and saw a gaunt man with one knee drawn to his chest. Not once as he spoke did he glance in her direction. He gazed forward, his eyes fixed on some point ahead. The heavy whoosh continued to disturb the air ruffling the man's long black hair. His skin looked rough, hollow cheeks pock-marked and scarred. Such an appearance should have filled Davran with fear, but something told her he could be trusted. The Master in the arena had a majestic appearance of beauty, but he was a monster.

"Pump-a-kin?"

The man smiled but continued to look straight ahead. "Without a doubt. Can't you smell it?"

"Don't know," Davran answered, wondering if any one of the multitude of new smells invading her senses was the one called pump-a-kin. "Wh-what you named?"

"Brant," he said, matter-of-factly, still looking straight ahead. "And there's no need to be afraid. Don't be afraid of the dragon, either." he said, tipping his head towards her.

"Dragon?"

"Just a Buchanian Red. Tame as anything – like cattle. Slow – granted – but safe."

He whistled a high pitched whistle. The dragon swooped toward the ledge. The man rose to his feet and as he stepped towards the edge he held out his hand and wiggled his fingers, inviting her to take hold.

Somehow she felt it was safe to do so. "I'm Davran," she said, taking hold of his hand and allowing herself to be led towards the huge beast hovering just beyond the ledge.

Ten

Davran followed Brant into the building he called home. Peering around him she took in a room full of light and bursting with a delicious aroma.

"Set another place Mother," he called out. "We've got company."

He placed a black leather bag by his feet, and standing with fists planted on his hips surveyed the empty room.

Davran slipped into his shadow, as footsteps travelled an adjoining corridor.

"Company? Where?" came a mellow voice.

Brant stepped aside with a chuckle. "He's a bit shy."

"Well, what a sight you are and no mistake."

The woman carried more flesh than Davran had ever laid eyes on, and as she folded what looked to be strong arms under a full bosom Davran stepped back into Brant's shadow.

"Easy now Felicia." Brant reached back, gripped Davran's shoulder and drew her forward. "Took me an age to get him here. Found him stuck on that ledge by the waterfall, didn't I Davran?"

"Davran is it?" Felicia flushed. "Well don't you go minding me; I'm just a foolish woman whose mind's not in control of her tongue. Isn't that so Brant?"

Davran managed a smile as Brant squeezed her shoulder.

"Our Kale got stuck on the same ledge, didn't he? After bird's eggs he was. Boys, honestly. That what you was after, was it?"

"No, I wer reaching fer... I... I don't know." Davran bit her lip. Held her tongue. He has eyes and ears everywhere, she reminded herself.

Felicia waited for an answer and Davran sensed her eyes beginning to water. She had never seen anyone so clean. That wasn't true. Saurian had been that clean. He was the only one. Felicia's skin was without blemish. Her dark hair glistened in the lamp light, reflecting glimmers of gold. Davran felt a strange sensation. For the first time ever, though she had no name for the feeling, she felt shame. Such a thing had never existed in her conscience before. There had never been anyone to feel inferior to. There had been only pride in her life: pride in finding food; pride in surviving.

She glanced at her arms, at the Fifteen years' worth of grime which covered her skin.

"Would you like a bath?" Felicia offered, stepping forward, her tone rather commanding.

"Bath?"

"Kale just got in, so the water'll still be nice and hot. He'll not mind you jumping in with him. Tell you what, leave your clothes on the landing and I'll run 'em through for you."

Bath? In with him? Whatever bath meant, in with him, surely meant together. Hot water? Felicia surely meant, take off your clothes and sit with my son in hot water. Naked!

"No, I... I can't." Davran back-stepped, her eyes wide with the possibility of discovery, the door in her sights. Brant's hand gripped her shoulder.

Keep the secret at all costs. "No! I... I don't wanna."

"Want to," Felicia corrected without pause for thought. "It's alright dear. Nobody's going to force you."

At that moment Kale padded into the room, a rough looking, gleaming white cloth around his waist, wet footprints on the floor behind him. He was slightly shorter than Davran, perhaps a year or so younger. His chest jiggled with an abundance of flesh. The meat on his arms, flushed red, looking sparkly clean, made Davran feel like a dirty bone. She placed the phrase hot water with the word bath and realised it must mean removing dirt from your skin. The boy glanced at Davran, scowled, sniffed and shrugged his shoulders, as if the appearance of a scruffy stranger was perhaps not such an unusual sight. He snatched a green ball from a bowl, bit into it, and with his mouth full, grunted a greeting of sorts before exiting.

"Looks like the tub's vacant," said Brant. "Will you take a bath alone?"

Davran looked into his eyes, at the smile formed creases and the ruggedness of his complexion. Smiling back, she nodded.

* * *

While Davran bathed, Brant told Felicia about his initial encounter with the lad on the ledge: how afraid Davran had seemed; his reluctance to leave the ledge even though he was obviously stuck; his refusal to tell him where he lived, despite an offer to take him home.

Brant blew an exasperated breath, "he's either had a loss of memory or he's afraid of something."

"Or someone," Felicia offered.

"Maybe."

"What should we do then?" Felicia curled her lower lip. "We can't just turn him out."

"No," Brant agreed. "If he wants to stay a while, I suppose..."

"He could."

"If we gain his trust, then..."

"Maybe he'll tell us something."

"That alright then?"

"What choice have we got?" Felicia said, implying her agreement before pausing in thought. "He's a strange look about him, don't you think?"

Brant shrugged. "Has he?"

"His eyes. He was squinting like the room was too bright. And his pupils were like pin-pricks in a dish of blue."

Brant shrugged again. "Didn't notice."

"You wouldn't. You're a man." Felicia placed crockery on the table and set the cutlery as she spoke. "So, what did Hesperus want?"

"Wanted my help training a difficult dragon." Brant drew a finger and thumb down opposite sides of his square jaw, caressing the stubble that had sprouted during his two day absence. "Don't worry. I told him I'm retired."

"I should think so."

Brant pushed his bag beside the cupboard. "Still, honoured to be asked." He folded his cape and placed it on the bag. "I knew it would be important, with him sending a dragon." Brant sat down, drew off his boots and placed them beside the bag.

"The best, that's what he said." Clearing his throat, Brant coloured his tone with an air of authority. "'Brant', he said, 'You are the best dragon trainer this land has known since your grandfather's time. It is with that in mind I have called you here today. There is a task of great importance for which I need your help. Need your help', he said those very words, Felicia. 'Others have tried and failed, Brant. That's why I need you. You're the best'." Brant inflated his chest, as if the words had filled his lungs. He spotted the glint of silver poking out the top of the bag, the tip of the whip-handle passed down to him by his father, from his father. He leaned forward and pushed it out of sight. Brant coughed into his fist when he realised Felicia had seen him. "He then complimented me on my reputation."

Felicia looked Brant in the eye for a moment, silent, her arms folded. "You said you weren't going to take that stuff. 'Just keepsakes', you said."

Brant shuffled in his seat and grimaced. "I told him, though. Retired. I'm a miller now, I said. Moved up these parts to mill flour. Bought this mill, I said." Brant sniffed. "Still, an honour to be asked to train a black dragon."

Felicia's brow knotted. "There's no such thing as a black dragon. Is there?"

"Officially, no." Brant hushed his voice and leaned slightly closer to Felicia. The intrigue added a youthful edge to his insistent grin, a sparkle in his dark brown eyes. "My great grandfather was the only man who's ever had the opportunity. Hesperus was there at the time. He told me all about it. Fascinating."

"You've told him you'll do it. Haven't you?"

Brant sat upright and rolled his eyes. "No! Nooo. I'm retired. Too dangerous, I said. Don't want my son going into it, I said. Told him straight, I did. We're a family of millers now. Don't want no dealings with no dangerous dragons. Millers we are and millers we'll stay."

The outer door creaked. "And I get no say in the matter?"

A young man entered. He had the same determined stride as Brant, the same black hair, the same strong jaw. His complexion though was smooth, not pock-marked like Brant's. He spun a chair from beneath the table, twirled it on one leg and sat down, his arms loosely folded across the chair back. His youthful eyes stared, waiting for an answer.

Brant pushed up his sleeves. His arms were a mass of scar tissue. "Do you want to look like this Ronyn." Brant patted his cheeks, thrusting out his jaw. "Or this. I once had your looks. You're still young. You can learn to be a miller."

Ronyn snorted. "I don't want to be a miller's son. I certainly don't want to be a miller. Kale can mill flour if he wants to. I want excitement. I want what you've had. I don't care about the scars. They show how tough and brave you are."

"Tough! Brave! What rubbish. I could have been killed."

"But you weren't, because you're the best. I've been listening. That's what I want. Who cares about being the best miller of flour. Where's the honour in that. Did the keeper of knowledge request your presence because you mill flour. No. If you only milled flour he wouldn't even know who you are. Had you milled flour all your life you'd be a nobody."

"Mind your manners." Felicia leaned over the table and scuffed Ronyn's head.

"But mum," Ronyn complained, "He doesn't want to be a miller either. We're only here because you made him."

"That's enough," Brant demanded as Davran stepped into the room.

Her hair was sleek, straight, an inch below her shoulders now it was combed and wet. Her skin, so pale it was almost translucent, glowed in the yellow lamplight. Her eyes like large pools took in the kitchen. The clean clothes, belonging to Kale, hung loosely on her delicate frame. She hovered around the doorway, anxious in the unexpected presence of someone new. She had spent her entire life skulking in shadows, avoiding new company, and was now meeting new people by the hour.

"Ah! my lotion worked on that hair of yours then," said Felicia with pride. "My Grandmother's recipe. I told you it would work. Look at that Brant, a girl would be proud of hair like that."

"Felicia! Stop it! You'll embarrass the boy. Come in Davran. Sit down." Brant smiled and patted the chair next to him. "This is my eldest son, Ronyn. He's eighteen, but he's acting like a child."

Ronyn gave a quick smile and raised a hand from the chair back. "Hi."

"H... hello." Davran said, looking at the floor.

"He's going to stay here for a bit." Brant said, placing a hand on Ronyn's shoulder. "– if he wants to, that is?"
Eleven

Davran woke with one thought on her mind – the falling torrent of water and its torment of colourful rainbows. Elated to see the return of the sky's golden wheel, she rubbed away her squint, then threw back the curtains and opened the window. What a wonderful place, she thought, leaning out, looking toward the expansive woodland. A shrill chatter and whistling noise seemed to rise from everywhere at once. She soon realised it was coming from the trees.

The door to the house slammed beneath her window. A clatter came from a nearby tree and something fluttered into the sky. It was followed by another, then another, and then several more. The black specks flew off into the distance. The spy in the bush. There's more of 'em!

Brant strode along the path, oblivious of the danger. She had an overwhelming urge to shout a warning, but realised they were looking for her, not Brant. Saurian had sent them to look for her.

She had to get to the fall of water. Capturing a rainbow was the only way she could think of to get back home. The quicker she got back the quicker she could bring her parents to this place. Then they could deal with the bush-spies and hide somewhere until they figured out what to do. Her father would know how to hide from the spies. But where was it? She didn't want to ask – a person's business is their own. To slip away unnoticed had been the plan, but with it came the realisation that she might go in the wrong direction and never find it.

After quickly dressing, she sloped outside and asked Brant to take her, using the excuse that she had left something behind. He was busy, he explained, using a flurry of new and familiar words – unsuccessfully – grinding grain into flour. Ronyn entered as Brant spoke, with a sack of grain on his shoulder. He strode across the room and tossed it onto the floor. The hessian strained and then split, grain spilling as the rip ran the length of the sack.

"I could take him," Ronyn offered, laughing, as he glanced at the five sacks he'd already fetched in. "Enough there to keep you going all week."

Joining his son's laughter Brant rubbed at the sweaty dough on his arms. "At this rate it'll last me a lifetime."

"Seems like one already," Ronyn, muttered, glancing at the doorway.

Brant looked at the spilt grain and the sunlit glint of sweat on his son's brow. "Go on then. No point us both suffering."

Outside the sun blazed through the trees and painted the path with dappled light. Ronyn pulled off his shirt and whipped it over his shoulder. Davran kept a watchful eye on the shadows, three paces behind Ronyn, also keeping a watchful eye on him.

Ronyn stopped abruptly and turned. Davran looked to the side.

"Why're you walking back there?"

Davran glanced at him, shrugged and looked off into the trees. It was getting hotter.

"Aren't you warm in that shirt? It's like a blanket on you."

"No, I'm... – I like blan-a-kets."

"You're a strange one." Ronyn shook his head, turned and continued walking.

"How old are you, anyway."

"I'll be sixteen, in twenty more sleeps."

"Sleeps? You mean days?"

"Yeh." When it's light, she reminded herself, failing to see what difference it made. "Twenty days."

He took a right fork in the path. Davran noted the split in the route and quickly looked for some kind of marker. Just beyond the path she spotted a tree with a fallen branch which seemed to point the way. Samaq had taught her to make up a story to better remember directions. A giant man who looked like Brant had broken the branch and placed it to show her the way. In the barren landscape where she lived it was essential. In a place where everything looks the same you can easily get lost and so you look at the detail: a rock balancing another which is to your right as you walk away from home and on your left as you return; another rock with a deep V cut into it that you line up with the mountain on the left of the others. She used the same method in the trees, all rocks apparently look the same, so too do all trees, until you look for details. They passed many junctions on the path and Davran counted them as the giant's strides. Ronyn turned down a path to the left. She quickly looked around and spotted a wizened tree which looked like a stooped woman. The giant asks the old lady for directions – she added to her imagined story.

"Anyway, why do you want to go to the waterfall?"

Davran smiled, watching the muscles in his lower-back flex with each stride. Waterfall? Water that falls – falling water. "I... dropped something."

The walk was longer than expected. That dragon must have flown quicker than Brant had made out. Ronyn didn't say anything else, he just kept walking, the fabric on the inside of his thighs whooshing with each step. Electricity surged through her when he spoke. She willed him to speak some more. She wanted to ask him questions but everything she imagined sounded stupid. She felt stupid enough already for asking the meanings of certain words, those she couldn't easily figure out. She considered the strange tone in their voices and wondered at the smallness of their eyes.

"Here we are." Ronyn looked up as he exited the tree line.

Davran drew level. The rainbows were back. The sun's light sparkled, captured within the falling water. At some point while she slept the sun had miraculously pushed the blackness away. Day always follows night, Ronyn had said, looking rather puzzled. He then laughed again and said she was mocking him as he wrestled her roughly to the ground. It caused a strange kick in her heart, a fire flamed in her cheeks and she felt compelled to look away.

"What did you lose, then?" he asked, rolling off her, scanning the ground.

Davran glanced down. The carpet of clover was larger than she had realised.

Ronyn followed her gaze. "What we looking for?"

He would see it when she found it. She had to have it. Samaq often told her, 'never leave the house without a weapon'. She'd had it as long as she could remember. Everyone had a dagger. Strange that Ronyn didn't. How would he protect himself if the need arose?

"A dagger. I dropped it around here."

Ronyn nodded with seeming indifference and began looking through the clover, spreading it with his hands.

So he knows what a dagger is?

She knew most of their words, or similar words that fitted. The only words she didn't know were ones which belonged to things that didn't exist in her world, such as sun and waterfall and window and pumpkin pie, which turned out to have been the most delicious thing to ever grace the surface of her tongue – until she tasted berries of straw that is.

Davran watched Ronyn as he searched, the muscles in his arms bulging as they supported his weight. Ronyn glanced at her, his brow knotted. Realising she had been spotted Davran turned away, her cheeks blazing.

"Found it yet?" she asked crawling away from him.

"No." Ronyn sounded slightly annoyed.

"Is it always this hot?"

"Hot? I think it's cooled down. Clouds moving in look."

Clouds? Not knowing what they were, and not wanting to ask, Davran didn't know where to look. Ronyn stood and arched his back. The muscles in his shoulders bunched as he drew the shirt over his head.

A sharp glint pierced the green carpet. Davran spotted it as a shrill cry sounded to her left. Ronyn was momentarily blinded with the shirt. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a flash of iridescent red and blue. The spy in the bush! Scurrying to the dagger, she retrieved it, rolled and launched the weapon in one fluid motion. The shrill song ceased with a rebounding wooden knock and from its scarlet throat, blood dripped to the floor.

"What did you do that for?" Ronyn bounded over. "What harm did it ever do you?"

Davran was astonished at the anger in his voice; the pity for the spy in the bush. Ronyn tugged the dagger free and dropped it onto the blood-soaked grass. He crouched under the bush, cradling the dead bird in his palm.

"I was..." The words balled in her throat.

"What?" Ronyn snapped. "You was what!?"

The violence in his voice shocked her. "He has eyes and ears everywhere." Her voice took on a tremor. Tears fell from her eyes. "It... it was calling..."

"It was afraid for its young, that's all."

Ronyn drew a nest from the depth of the bush. Four nestlings called out for food from diamond shaped mouths. Ronyn placed the bird on the grass, picked up the blade, and, with the nest balanced in his other hand, glared at Davran.

Davran fixed her eye on the dagger. "Please don't kill me!"

"What?"

Ronyn shook his head, put the nest down, and began scraping at the ground with the blade. As he dug he glanced at Davran, unspoken questions in his eyes.

Davran struggled to recall what she had said. Had she said anything which would give her away? Reveal who she was? Say something, she thought. "Where I come from, there isn't much food. I... I just reacted. It was instinct."

"You remember something, then?" Ronyn spat his words, his gaze seeming to cut right into her.

Davran chewed her lip. Not knowing how best to reply, she decided not to.

Ronyn stretched a brown twisting string of a creature from the soil, cut it into pieces and shared it amongst the hungry, gaping mouths. Diamond wide and squawking, they wanted more. Ronyn took up the dead bird, placed it into the hole and brushed the loose soil back into place.

"That's a waste of food. You're no better than..."

"What? No better than who?" Anger still coloured his voice.

"...No better than me. If we ate it, at least it wouldn't have died for nothing." Davran's voice carried a note of defiance. She scowled at him. Who was he to judge her. He had no idea: pumpkin pie and berries of straw.

"There's hardly any meat on the thing." Ronyn shook his head, took up the nest and walked back toward the mill in silence. Davran followed behind, her eyes to the ground, wishing he would be angry, shout, curse, anything other than ignore her. When she was younger, had she spoken to Krull in such a manner he would have punched her. She would have punched him in return, as best she could, and then they would soon have returned to friendship. Approaching the mill, its calm pond still and reflective beyond the trees, Davran ran up to Ronyn's side and looked into his stone-stern face.

"I'm sorry. What can I do?"

Ronyn stopped and looked into the trees for a moment before looking at her.

"Punch me, if it'll make you feel better."

"Why would that make me feel better?" His voice boomed, the anger still evident. "It wouldn't bring the bird back, would it? I'll tell you what you can do. You can look after these. They'll need constant feeding. And, from now on, stay away from me. Understand all of those words, do you!?"

Davran took the nest and watched as Ronyn stormed towards the mill, his pounding footfalls raising a storm of dust. For some reason she couldn't fathom, he was more angry at her for being sorry than he'd been when she'd first killed the bird. She considered placing the nest on the ground and running back to the waterfall and grasping one of those rainbows right now. There were others relying on her: Mother and Father, Farfell and the twins, maybe others. Father would decide. Who was Ronyn to judge her, anyway, living his life of luxury, an abundance of food and warmth in the very air he breathed. Burying food; he was no better than Saurian.

So why couldn't she hate Ronyn?

The nestlings called out, shrill, piercing. Animals that are not for eating, she thought, looking at them. Strange. Sparkling topaz rays of light shone down on her through wavering leaves. Dappled pools of light lapped over her feet. Birds, Ronyn called them. They sat in branches above and sang twirling tunes which lifted her mood. They fluttered in and out of the canopy in response to their own nestlings. Apparently, these small creatures needed her help.

She resolved to stay, for now.

Only for their sake, though.

Twelve

That night Davran struggled to find sleep. She now knew where to find the rainbows. She should go back home. She'd promised herself she would. The very idea though was overwhelmingly scary. Her mind wandered to her last night there, returning from the arena with a payment of bread, to her mother letting slip that she had once contemplated killing her.

Davran knew she was loved. She'd always felt it.

Why then had her mother once contemplated killing her?

When they'd gotten back from the arena Varna had struggled to hold back tears. "What if...?" she'd said, pausing to compose herself. "We can't do it again, Samaq. What if one day you're stopped? What if they then search her? They might even tell her to strip."

Samaq had curled his lip in contemplation and shrugged. "She knows what to expect now." He'd looked at Davran for confirmation. "She'll be alright. They'll not tell her to strip, why would they? What reason would they have for wanting a scrawny boy to strip? They only want strong boys to train as guards, and pretty girls to use as maidens. To them, Davran is neither."

Varna's brow knitted with concern as she placed a hand on Samaq's and looked him in the eye. "We can't be the only ones who've thought of doing this. Surely others have done the same. What if he knows? It's too risky, Samaq. What if we get found out?"

Varna continued, after a pause so unnaturally long she must have been searching for alternative words, saying, "people often know more than you think they do."

Samaq placed his free hand over Varna's. "What choice have we got?" he said. "We have to eat. Because Davran joined me we have twice as much food. And, wharrif anything were ter happen ter me? Davran has ter learn ter fend for herself. She can't rely on another man; she can't look fer a husband, not so close ter her choosing." Samaq gazed into Varna's eyes a long while before continuing. "We've gorren away with it fer fifteen years, and we'll carry on as long as we can." The corners of his mouth curled in a small smile and he turned to face Davran. "Besides, look wharra fine boy she makes. With that defiant look she could fool anyone.

"Mark my words, Varna, one day she'll reach fer rainbows and– "

"STOP IT!" Varna snapped, whipping her hand away. "Just stop it. Filling her head with nonsense! You're always doing it – 'reaching for rainbows this, reaching for rainbows that' – it serves no purpose. There are no rainbows?"

"There are" – Davran said into the soft pillow – "I've found them, Mum."

Varna then strode across the small room, fixed her attention on the cooking pot and seemingly forced the ladle to clatter more than it would have naturally. "There are no rainbows, Davran," she'd said, fixing Davran with a steely glare, before switching it to Samaq. "There are no rainbows, Samaq, but there's always risk. Better to die today than live the life of hand-maid tomorrow."

Davran looked up at the ceiling, running Varna's words through her mind. Better to die today than live the life of hand-maid tomorrow. Better to die today? Better to die today?

"What about Maia?" Samaq had snapped in reply. "What would Farfell say? Would he agree...? No, he wouldn't. Fer until he knows fer certain that his daughter's no longer alive there's hope. That's why I talk ter Davran about rainbows, 'cause there's allus hope."

"No there isn't, Samaq. Maia's hope is gone. Unless she–... I tell you, Farfell was a fool to let them take her. I'd rather have killed her with my own hands than risk her becoming a maid to that... to that monster."

"Here's my dagger, then!" Samaq shouted, slamming it onto the table.

"You know I couldn't." Varna turned away sharply, threw a pinch of salt into the pot and slowly stirred. "Not now," she added under her breath.

Not now? Davran silently questioned, knowing she wasn't really meant to have caught the utterance.

Varna chased a shell around the pot, her mouth down-turned in disgust. Davran pictured her, looking at the wall with a contemplative tip of her head. She then shuddered, as she focused on her cooking and lifted the ladle with its captured shell. Davran recalled hearing the rhythmic scrape of Father's blade on the stone table. Every spare moment he had he sharpened that blade. Mother looked across, her face twisted a little, as if the shell overhanging the ladle's tarnished bowl and its trails of snotty-grey-gloop was hard to look at. She drained it of liquid and tossed it to the floor with the other parts: the legs and barbed underbelly. "Protein is protein is life," Varna'd said, before ladling the grey-stew into three bowls, hiding the look of disgust on her face before joining Samaq and Davran at the table.

Samaq inhaled deeply, set his knife aside and blew dust from the grooves in the table's edge. The candle, its base now slumped onto the table, sputtered. "Smells good, Varna," he'd said, smiling, winking at Davran as he tore himself a chunk of bread.

It had smelled awful. Davran knew that now, after smelling pumpkin pie. And after tasting berries of straw, she realised, it would taste even worse. After tasting berries of straw she didn't think she could contemplate eating squeal bug stew ever again.

"Smells good, does it?" Varna questioned. "You're a liar, Samaq!" she snapped, her stony expression cracking into a broad smile. "Still, I suppose you've had plenty of practice."

"As have you," Samaq replied, "as have you."
Thirteen

Samaq did a quick count: thirty one; thirty two; thirty three. More than yesterday. Thirteen days had passed since Davran's disappearance and the collapse of the cave and as each new day began more and more people came.

Looking at Farfell, Samaq raised his brow. Farfell shrugged and descended into the cut where men had split into small groups: tight knots of twos and threes. The twelve men who had come on the fifth day formed a separate group. Unlike the newcomers, they looked relaxed and smiled as they chatted. Occasionally one of that group would separate, join one of the smaller groups, talk for a moment and then return to the larger party.

The day the cave fell, suspecting it had buried Davran, Samaq had immediately begun hauling rock with his bare hands. His fingers bleeding and nails shredded, he eventually went home to get tools. On returning to the cave he had worked until he'd dropped and told Davran he would come back as soon as he had rested. Samaq toiled through the second day, and returned home to find Farfell waiting outside. After a good day scavenging for food Farfell had wanted to share his bounty with Samaq. In the confines of Samaq's home Farfell learnt of the collapse and the fear that Davran may be trapped inside, possibly alive.

Farfell had insisted on helping to rescue Davran. On the fourth day they were joined by Tarrik. Samaq was overwhelmed. He had seen Tarrik, even given him a nod of greeting on a couple of occasions, but had never spoken to him. Yet here he was, not so much helping Samaq, but helping Farfell to help Samaq. Tarrik was a good man, similar in many ways to himself and Farfell, which, as Samaq thought about it, was no surprise. Why would Farfell have befriended him otherwise?

On the morning of the fifth day, when Samaq opened the door, Farfell was alone. Not feeling as if he had any right to expect Tarrik's continuing support, Samaq did not question his absence.

When they neared the cave entrance they saw Tarrik approaching from over the wasteland. With him were ten other men. Tarrik had a brother by birth and two brothers by marriage. He had told them about the young man trapped in the cave and how all of the previous day he had helped to remove rubble with the hope that Davran was still alive. He'd told how the collapse had happened five days back, and if Davran was not removed from the ground soon any hope of finding him alive became less and less. Each of the brothers told their own friends, who also wanted to help.

An uncomfortable presence floated in the air, men only talking to the two or three people they knew well. In each tight group though at least one man knew and trusted a man from another group and eventually, carried on a breeze of sociability, suspicion began to leave the cave. Within hours, conversation flowed as if they had known each other for years. They took it in turns to dig out rock which was back-breaking and hard on the fingers. Those not digging formed a chain and carried solitary words on the back of every boulder. After a while they had buried suspicion outside, under a pile of rubble. The solitary words became phrases which trickled into sentences, and, like the waters of a stream, they flowed faster with every joining tributary. Ideas and suggestions passed through the cave with each passing boulder.

It was perhaps the intoxicating lure of company which had caused them to return on the sixth day. There was of course a solemn respect for the reason they were digging, but even Samaq gained some comfort from the distraction. There was little chance of finding Davran alive now, he knew that, but somehow this only made finding her body more important. For the first time in their lives the men had something other than their own survival on which to focus.

In their seven day absence wives and sisters had taken the duty of scavenging for food, and they too were enjoying a kind of freedom. It turned out that the women were more willing to tell where they had found food and everyone involved prospered as a result.

"This can't continue," said Samaq scanning all the new men who had arrived to help. "With this many people involved He'll find out."

"Who's goin' ter tell?" Farfell placed a hand on Samaq's shoulder as they scrambled down the last few yards. "That first time, when there were twelve of us, everyone was there on the trust of another. You trusted me, I trusted Tarrik, Tarrik trusted his brothers. Yes? Today there's twenty three new people. But they're only here because they're trusted friends of those twelve. We've come ter trust and respect every member of that original twelve as if they'd allus been friends. If each of those twelve friends are the people we believe 'em ter be, then there's no reason ter doubt their judgement."

"S'pose, but..."

"But nothing, Samaq. Somethin's happening here. Do you really think this is still about recovering yer boy's body? It's become much more than that. This search is an excuse. Davran's become a symbol of hope. These people don't expect ter find Davran alive. They aren't here because they feel sorry for you – why would they? They don't know yer. They're here because they've been told how comforting it can be ter have trust move amongst large numbers of people. Look how enviously the new ones gaze at the group of twelve. They don't know yer, but they want ter know yer."

"Why? Why me?"

"You're the connection ter Davran. He's the symbol and you're the connection ter that symbol. It began with you. That makes you a kind of figurehead."

Samaq smirked. "Yer knew these people would be here, didn't yer?"

"Tarrik did tell me, yes."

"I don't know how I'll ever repay yer Farfell."

"One day, there may be a chance ter rescue my Maia from that monster's clutches. If that chance ever arises I've no doubt you'll be by my side."

Samaq clapped Farfell's shoulder and held his gaze. If she's still alive. "No question about it my friend."

With thirty three people – plus Samaq and Farfell – the fallen rocks were brought out faster. Before they had trickled like a stream, now they flowed like a river. The chain along which they were passed was now two abreast and conversation overlapped conversation.

Eventually all the loose rock had been removed. They had not found Davran's body. What they had discovered though, was a network of tunnels, a natural labyrinth. As each rock filled passage was cleared several more were found, which in turn led to more. Men split into groups and assigned themselves tunnels to search. The deflation they had all felt when the last of the rocks had been removed had been brushed aside with new hope. Davran, it seemed, might still be alive. Alive but lost in the maze of passages.

Samaq and Farfell made up a group with Tarrik and his two brothers by marriage. Samaq felt it would be good to be with men from that original twelve.

"I'll join with you, my friend, hmmn."

Samaq cringed as the hand fell on his shoulder. Turning, knowing who it was before he laid eyes upon him, Samaq forced a smile. "Yusmuth."

"I wish I'd known about this from the beginning," Yusmuth said to the group. "Samaq and I are good friends. Can't think why he didn't ask me. I'd have been more than glad to help."

"He didn't ask any of us," Farfell said, scowling. "We offered."

"No? No, of course – of course he didn't ask. Offered, yes. Naturally, yes. I... I was just. I was one of the last to speak to Davran you know. Isn't that correct, Samaq, hmmn? That fateful day." Yusmuth drew a finger under his eye and bowed his head. "Very sad. Tragic."

Farfell grunted. "He might still..."

"Alive, yes. Yes of course... let's hope. A lovely young man, hmmn? Such soft skin." Yusmuth marched off in front. "Which one for us? This way, hmmn, yes?"

The five exchanged silent glances as they followed Yusmuth toward the tunnel. Suspicion had followed Yusmuth into the cave like a bad smell.

"Yusmuth," Tarrik said in an over-friendly tone. "You explore that tunnel with my brothers, hmmn, and Samaq, Farfell and I will explore this one."

Yusmuth scowled, but quickly greased it with a smile. "Samaq and I are such good friends though, hmmn...? And I... I haven't... well, I don't know these people."

"Exactly! You and Samaq are already firm friends. Me and farfel know you, but my brothers don't know you. We all want to get to know each other. As all of us already know each other it's better that you join my brothers."

* * *

"Who invited Yusmuth?" asked Samaq when they were out of earshot.

"He's your friend, hmmn?" said Farfell, his voice ringing with irony.

Tarrik laughed at Samaq's grunting response, a soft lilting laugh of pleasure. "As far as I'm aware he's tolerated by everybody and trusted by none. I'll ask around."

Putting Yusmuth out of their minds they began exploring issues which had been raised in the early days. They each swapped stories passed down through generations and found overlapping similarities. It seemed each of them had heard at some point in their family history the tale about someone reaching for rainbows.

"I'm gonna bring my boys tomorrow," said Farfell. "The more people we have ter map these tunnels the better. Melvin and Rowul keep pestering me, and if Yusmuth can come I don't see why they shouldn't."
Fourteen

Maia knew the soap was made from the fat of human flesh, but as it released the scent of rose petals the thought somehow seemed less harrowing. She looked across the room, out the window, at the blood-black sky. Vapour settling on the window formed droplets that broke free, ran in rivulets and pooled on the stone ledge. The window is crying for us, she thought. The window is crying for us because we can't cry for ourselves. Crying wasn't allowed. When you are in Saurian's chamber, your face will demonstrate how pleased you are to be there. She drew her gaze from the window and looked down at Saurian.

Steam rising from the tub warmed her face. Sweat trickled down the nape of her neck. Saurian lounged in the hot water, his skin flushed pink, the veins on his arms and neck gorged with hot blood. Through partially closed eyes Maia guessed he was viewing the selection: the four handmaids attending him. They were young, but well trained in meeting his needs. Each of them had been taken by the magistrates at the age of sixteen, the age when signs of beauty could be established. Two years of training followed. You will do Saurian's bidding without question. They could then be called at any time. You are most fortunate to have been chosen. Maia considered herself unfortunate. Perform well and you will enjoy a lifetime of luxury. Her training had barely finished and already she had been called for the second time. She knew of others who had gone several years without being called once. Housed in the warmth of the palace, they truly did eat the finest food available; Saurian insisted on it. A maiden without the adornment of flesh is as unpalatable to desire as a dry bone to the gut. There was a price to pay for the luxuries they enjoyed.

Soft music piped from the adjoining chamber, meandered, occasionally skipped, around the room. Saurian tipped his head back and closed his eyes, his white-hair trailing over the edge of the tub. Maia slipped a hand beneath it and continued the rhythmic brushing while glancing to her side, at Saurian's discarded robe.

The belt which coiled from underneath snagged her attention. She drew her eyes away letting them settle on Saurian's throat where she watched the soft swelling rise and fall with each swallow. Her eyes narrowing she traced the fat vein in his neck. Along the length of the belt, hidden by the robe, was a dagger.

A harsh word, she thought: Dagger – Dag. She ran the word through her mind with a stabbing emphasis, dag, dag, dag. Some words just suit the thing they signify. Dagger! Danger! Dagger even sounds like danger, rings with it, only one letter away, a short stretch. The knife too was only a short stretch.

How that vein would gush if punctured.

Maia glanced at the other handmaids. They were attending to his body, soaping and massaging with aromatic oil. In the housing chamber they were firm friends, but in here they did not dare speak. They even avoided eye contact. In here you're alone.

A low mew escaped Saurian's slightly parted lips, the sound a small mammal would perhaps make if being petted. The water rippled, a tremor in his muscles making the surface shiver. Once again she looked at his throat. His eyes were fully closed now, but they said he had eyes everywhere. He could talk to the tiniest bug and find things out. That's what she'd heard. Maybe he was tricking her and had left the dagger there on purpose. Tales of Saurian's cruelty stirred the hairs on her neck, caused them to prickle. She had bathed him before. That time she had almost passed out from fear of what would happen. Nothing had happened. Fear of a thing can be worse than the thing itself. Wondering if the tales were true she questioned whether a person could scare themselves to death? And if they can, is it then suicide? The thought of that alone was too much to ponder.

Shaking the dagger from her mind she gazed down the length of Saurian's soap-sudded body. Danger. It always lurks, waiting. It lurks in dark recesses. To simply open the door and voluntarily accept it, to invite it to enter, is foolish. Ignore danger, that's best. Ignore it and it might stay away. I'm not going to send danger an invite. I'm just going to do as told, brush Saurian's hair, or whatever else he wants of me and then leave, leave with a pleasant smile on my face.

Still.

A dagger.

At arms-length.

A quick grasp and...

Slice!

The imagined sound cut through Maia's consciousness, making the core of her being shudder. A slippery cut. She imagined the sensation on her own skin – ssslice. The sharpness of the blade cutting deep, tiny imperfections dragging the skin until it separates and opens to a flood of blood. The sweep of her brushing must have faltered for Saurian opened an eye. A shard of icy-blue chilled her, sent freezing splinters to the marrow of her bones. She stifled a gasp. Suddenly self-conscious, she worried that fear might show in her eyes. Holding herself together, she coyly tipped her head, smiled, and continued to brush.

Has he read my thoughts?

The door had opened slightly. She had allowed it to and danger had glanced through the crack.

Maia looked at the window and consoled herself with the thought that they would soon be finished. Not much longer and it would be over. The window cried, but she could not. When it was over she would warm by the fire in the housing chamber, enjoy a hot drink and relax.

Thankfully, when she looked down, Saurian's eyes were closed. She had seen clear blue eyes before, Davran the young boy who lived next door, he had the clearest of blue eyes, but they were speckled with a greenish blue and ringed with a shade of purple. Those blue eyes of Davran's shone with life, whereas Saurian's were almost devoid of colour, ice-blue, hardly definable from the white. And Saurian's pupils, his pin-head black-pupils, reflected nothing.

The dagger was a temptation she did not need. It was too risky. Besides, it was said, that eventually Saurian tired of having the same maidens attend him. If you served well he would release you from duty. Maidens sometimes went to Saurian's chambers, never to return, that much was true. Just recently her friends Nalia and Trinny went to serve. Nalia for her sixth time; Trinny for her ninth. They must have pleased Saurian for they never returned. Some of the maidens claimed they had been killed, but what did they know? Nobody in there knew what happened, not really. Nalia and Trinny had served Saurian several times without punishment of any kind, so he must have been pleased with them. Some women returned to the chamber with bruises. Yes, Maia determined, Saurian must have been pleased with Nalia and Trinny, he must have been. She recalled them assuring her that serving Saurian was not as bad as everyone feared. If you do his bidding you'll be alright, Maia. She felt, though, that their eyes spoke a different truth.

Perhaps they were back with their families at this very moment.

Thinking of family, she regarded Saurian with cold calculation. Once more she glanced at the tears running down the black window. She pictured her mother – pictured her crying.

Why did they call it chosen? It should really be called taken, abducted, stolen. Her father's face had fumed, but his eyes looked empty. He did nothing. He didn't say a word. She understood why. The magistrates that did Saurian's choosing for him were heartless. They would have killed her father and mother without question, the twins too probably, and taken her anyway. Something died in father's eyes that day.

Yes, she determined, one day I will go home and put a glimmer back in father's eyes. I'll kiss my mother's tear-stained cheeks, hug Rowul and Melvin.

But how long will I have to wait?

Again, despite herself, her mind drifted along the belt.
Fifteen

Skappstekker waited outside the room, a fresh robe draped over his arm, his image captured in the black marble across the hallway. The reflection stared back like a stranger: a separate part of him that measured and judged as he waited for the cries and screams to die. It pondered his lack of reaction as he waited for pleas of mercy to give way to silent submission. That's when it would end. When a maid's fight ended so too did the master's enjoyment. Saurian's voice haunted his mind. If the victim does not scream there's no pleasure. The pleasure is in the fight, Skappstekker – the excitement in the terror.

Waiting for the moment to arrive, Skappstekker wondered if Saurian had been displeased by the maids. Skappstekker had chosen them, and in doing so had thought the selection appropriate to Saurian's mood.

Four guards stood by him, two on either side of the doorway. The men were specially selected – the guards of the interior palace – the elite. They were big, no more than Skappstekker's bulk, but all muscle, muscle which threatened to break the leather bindings on their forearms. He noted how the row of sharp spikes glinting in the lamp-light stood in sharp contrast with the black leather. Lethal in a tussle – more so than the daggers, swords and axes they carried – the spikes were for close confrontation and could rip through bone, tear into a man's jowl, and cut his jaw to shreds.

Seemingly deaf to the sounds of horror in the room the guards showed no emotion. Usually Skappstekker stood as if alone and showed them no regard. To him, even though they bristled with armoury, they were little more than furniture. This day there was one exception: Malvert, the guard on the far right. Skappstekker knew the name of no other guard. He had not asked for Malvert's name. It's better not knowing. It's easier to disregard a person if they have no name.

Their eyes connected in the reflective wall. Malvert gave Skappstekker a slight nod, which he ignored.

What had it been now, fifteen years, sixteen? So much time had passed and yet Malvert still felt the need, a compulsion to recognise the kindness shown when he was new to the post. Or was it that Malvert knew his secret? Was that it? Did he know about Nikki, about what Skappstekker had done for her? No, he couldn't possibly. But even if he did, did it matter? He hadn't said anything, and it had after all been over fifteen years ago.

Looking away, Skappstekker focused on his own reflection, that other part of himself which constantly cast judgement. The luxury of palace life hung heavy on his waistline. Food and drink was the only pleasure he allowed himself now, and he gorged as often as possible. A drunken man doesn't hear internal screams. And the following day, the thunder in his head blocks out many a submerged cry.

Almost three hours passed before the room finally fell silent. Skappstekker allowed a few more moments – just to be certain. Wondering again if he had made a poor selection, he mustered courage, flung the double doors wide and made a grand entrance. Once inside he scanned the room and found it much as expected. Three of the four females were huddled together in a corner, naked and bruised. Two of them sat in pools of intermingled fluid staring blankly, their once pretty faces now contorted with terror. The third gibbered uncontrollably. Saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth, but in her eyes a glimmer of light still shone. She had an ounce of sanity left. She would one day find herself back in Saurian's chamber.

The fourth hung from the wall by her ankles, her hips at head height. Various implements, smeared with blood, littered the floor beneath.

"That one's dead." Saurian flicked a hand towards the wall where she hung as he stepped before the window and looked out into the night. "Such a disappointment," he said, a note of irritation in his voice. "When she went for the dagger I expected an exciting fight, but she gave up almost at once."

Skappstekker scanned her body. He saw the signs and they brought sorrowful memory. They were subtle, the signs, but they never escaped him. The flutter of an eye clenched tight, hiding intelligent thought; the slight curl of a lip, drawing a shallow, pain-filled breath; the quiver of a digit; a tremor coursing the spine. She's not dead. She's close, he thought, but not yet dead. Never again would he make the mistake he had made fifteen years ago. How it had haunted him, filled him with regret, drowned him in sorrow, and left him with longing. If only he had never had her; one cannot miss what one has never had. How the sweetness of nectar does the more bitter a lemon make. As a boy he had taken his mother's expression literally, tried it even, and it was indeed true. Time and experience had showed him what she had really meant, and bitter meant pain.

"Guards, remove the maids." A rising confidence coloured Skappstekker's voice. He hadn't entered the room too early or too subserviently. "Take these two for shredding," he said, carefully attaching no emotion, pointing them out as he looked away. "Take that one for punishment and reconditioning."

While the other guards set to work Malvert headed for the maiden on the wall, his stride so slow as he passed Skappstekker that it seemed deliberate, as if he were holding back. Wondering again if he knew, Skappstekker held out an arm to halt Malvert's progress and approached the woman himself. With a flick of his wrist a short knife slipped into his palm. Grasping a leg, he unclasped her ankles. Skappstekker held her with little effort, for she was as light and delicate as Nikki had been.

As he lowered her to the ground, masking her from Malvert's view, he allowed the blade to slice across her throat. Maia's eyes flicked open as bubbles of blood frothed in the gash. She mouthed something – 'May I', he thought. Uncertain if that was what she had tried to say, thinking it made little sense, he didn't dwell on it. For a split second, before her body fell limp, he felt the look she gave him shone with gratitude. If only I could have done the same for Nikki. With that thought he closed her eyes, his fingers gently lingering on her soft lids.

"Feed this one to the beasts," he commanded.

The door thudded into its frame as Malvert left with Maia's body slumped over his shoulder. When the silence became heavy Saurian spoke without turning. "I know your little secret."

Skappstekker stiffened, cursing the glimmer of duality which lived in his heart: that separate part of him which felt compelled to end suffering. If the maid had brought her punishment on herself as Saurian had indicated, if she had done that, and had then died, it would have been suicide. In killing her he had saved her from a fate worse than death. In his heart he knew the maid had been grateful. May I thank you, he fancied she had wanted to say. The thought brought him some comfort.

Saurian now knew his secret.

He had tried to stop, tried to prevent himself from caring about them, knowing he would get caught sooner or later, but he could not stand to see them suffer, to think of what they would endure for suiciding. Killing them, if he had the chance, was all he could do for them. Killing in those circumstances, he told himself, is merciful. Every time he did it, it was like rescuing Nikki, and it cushioned his own nightmarish existence. Is Nikki still alive? he wondered, or did she suffer and die?

"Yes, I know your secret, Skappstekker. I've watched you. You have a liking for the dead. Don't you? A desire for ruined flesh before it goes cold. Yes, I am aware of it, your desire, your little fetish. For a short while the juices still flow – but of course you'd know that. I have dabbled myself, but I don't have your fascination. It doesn't excite me. Their eyes don't open wide with pain. The dead don't scream or beg for mercy. I like to offer it – mercy – but of course you know that too. It gives them hope. I like to dangle it then snatch it away. I like to wrestle with their emotions.

"That one actually thought she could return home. Imagine? She had the audacity to ask when she would be allowed to leave. Can you believe it? How I laughed. That's when she went for the dagger. She was pure though. Innocent. The more pure they are the more they beg. Oh, it's sooo delicious. I don't mind, Skappstekker. You can have the dead ones. A man in your position doesn't have to be content with small encounters; embracing them as you hand them to the guard. You may take them to your bed, Skappstekker. Enjoy them. Don't keep them too long though. After a while they begin to smell."

As Saurian spoke, Skappstekker nodded his head slowly, his face contorted with a smile of tension that made him look dim-witted. "Thank you, Master," he eventually said, hoping the sarcasm in his tone was not as obvious as he feared it might be. "You're very good to me."

Slicking strands of hair over his balding scalp, Skappstekker looked at the table, its entire surface covered with platters piled high with food. Steam spiralled from a roast where a sliver had been sliced away. A piece of fruit, a small bite from its surface, lay by the side. The many pastries, soups and desserts remained untouched. Saurian strode over to the window, naked, his arms clasped behind his back, and looked down onto the city.

A sprawling mass, the city stretched into the distance, filtered into darkness where the outlanders resided, thinking that distance from the palace made them safer. In the palace's shadow the homes were larger, provided by Saurian himself, occupied by Saurian's magistrates. If they performed well they were safe. They made certain they performed well. Beyond, enclosed by a high crenelated wall, smaller dwellings cast a large arc around the palace. Skilled workers resided in this level: stone masons, iron smelters, carpenters and all manner of trades required for maintaining the luxurious splendour of the palace. They themselves were safe, but not necessarily their children. Scattered amongst these lived the palace guards, handlers of beasts and ancillary staff. Beyond the wall, beyond the protected enclave, dwelt the less-skilled workers. They lived on the hinge between abundance and scarcity. Beyond them were the masses, Saurian's most valued subjects – outlanders – their ramshackle homes dwindling into the far distance. Saurian relied on them the most. Keeping them just on the edge of starvation he allowed their numbers to grow despite the frequent killings.

"My robe," Saurian demanded, still gazing out the window.

Skappstekker bowed as he approached, wisps of hair falling over his face. "The food master? You've had your fill?"

"Mmm."

Glancing over Saurian's shoulder Skappstekker captured his reflection and brushed the fallen strands from his eyes. "Should I have it thrown to the outlanders?"

Saurian sniffed contemptuously. Realising his mistake, Skappstekker winced. Biting his lip he gripped the gathered robe in his hands. Saurian continued to stare out the window. Skappstekker held the robe aloft, watching the muscles in Saurian's back wrestle with tension. Saurian tipped his head to the side; the resulting crack echoed round the room.

"Is it to go to the beasts?"

From behind he saw Saurian's jaw flexing.

He had to be strong. To survive he had to think like Saurian. If he failed he would be replaced, which he would not mind. What he did mind, what he wanted to avoid, was the slow torture which would only end with suicide. Everyone knew that suicide was the worst thing that could happen to a person. To become an unfortunate: the very idea sent a shudder through his marrow, but the fear of it caused his mind to work all the better and helped to drag an idea from the depths of depravity. It was cruel enough, he thought, to rouse the hatred that Saurian desired. He relaxed, slowing his breathing, before giving his idea a voice.

"Bury it in the ground Master. Let the starving outlanders watch? All but one item: perhaps the roast, over which they will be allowed to fight. Some will no doubt die in the tussle and, as they entered into such a fight willingly, will become the unfortunates of suicide."

"Excellent." Saurian turned from the window. "Tell me, do you take pleasure from the sight of my body?"

"Very much your magnificence," Skappstekker began, elevating his posture and tone. "If only I were blessed by your grace and beauty, structure and form, stature and-"

"Enough! Do you think me a fool?" The icy shards in Saurian's voice made it clear he was not genuinely asking for an opinion.

Skappstekker bit his tongue and rolled the robe over Saurian's head. It rippled to his ankles like cascading water, the lustre of its woven silver glimmering. Saurian looked deep into Skappstekker's eyes. Skappstekker felt as if his thoughts were being probed, as if a black tongue of enquiry were coiling through his brain. Saurian's thin lips spread into a narrow self-satisfied grin as he fondled the black sphere suspended from his neck.

"Luckily for you I'm in a forgiving mood." Saurian brought the pendant to his lips and planted a kiss on the light absorbing surface. "It's weighing heavy, Skappstekker. The magistrates must be doing their job well. The balance is tipping toward me. I can feel it."
Sixteen

Davran rummaged through the grain store, knee deep in golden nuggets, searching for mealworms. She examined each one, holding them between thumb and forefinger, checking for disease or deformity before placing them in the box, where they squirmed and writhed in search of freedom. Those not making the grade, she squashed and placed in a paper bag. The one she presently held had a black spot on its rear end. Deciding it did not make the grade, she squeezed. Its skin stretched, swelled, burst, and yellow ooze dribbled down her thumbnail. Disgusting. As she considered their plight small pangs of guilt rose in her conscious, but they were a firm favourite of her little darlings and Brant had said it was also doing him a huge favour. Both the bad and the good, he said, were equally troublesome in the grain.

They wriggled in the box, rolling over each other in a futile attempt to escape. Watching them Davran had a thought: If they'd never experienced grain at all – if they'd been born in a constricting box – would they have still felt trapped? Something about their movement, the sight of them, churned her stomach. At one time she would have considered them food and have thought herself fortunate to have them. The very idea was now repulsive. Still, the chicks loved them. Seven weeks had passed by and they had filled out. They were no longer skin and stubble. The scrawny things now had iridescent feathers that glinted in the sunlight, and breasts that had plumped close to full maturity. They had, she thought, blossomed into objects of beauty.

Changes had come upon her too.

Her moon-blood had come for the first time yesterday, after bathing. She worried that the others might smell it. It was one reason women did not go into the wasteland, just in case the moon-blood took them by surprise. Her mother had told her, 'when your moon-blood comes, Davran, you must stay indoors'. Her father never mentioned moon-blood. A thought came to her. In her world there was no moon, so why call it moon-blood?

Davran shook the box. The mealworms writhed. Not enough. She scanned around and spotted one wriggling on the surface of the grain, an arms stretch away. It squirmed among the snatching of grain in her palm, seemingly oblivious that it had even been captured. It had a black spot, and pulsated in Davran's grip. As she was about to squeeze she paused and drew her lower lip through her teeth. She then placed it into the paper bag, unharmed.

* * *

"I can't imagine what's happened to that yellow bed sheet," Felicia complained, as Davran passed through the kitchen, striding over piles of laundry. "There's a towel missing, too." She stood tapping her foot. "You seen it, Davran?"

"I purrit fer wash, on the landing, like yer told me."

"Put it, Davran. I'm sorry but I don't like lazy speech. I placed it on the landing, like you asked me to.

"Placed. That means the same as put it?"

Felicia nodded, looking at the pile of laundry.

"Well, I placed it on the landing, fer washing."

"For... Strange, I don't recall washing it."

"I aint lying."

"I am not," Felicia corrected, smiling at Davran as she scooped up the laundry.

Davran left the kitchen and mounted the stairs, squirming against the tight restriction. In her room she whipped off the prickly over-shirt and unwound the yellow binding. She felt a little faint and steadied herself against the bed until the feeling passed.

"That's better, isn't it?" she cooed, enjoying the breeze on her naked skin, approaching the nest on the window ledge, carefully staying out of sight. "It is, my little darlings. Go on then, sing fer... for me. Sing for your supper."

The birds, for they were no longer nestlings, fluttered up to Davran's hand as she presented the mealworms. "Stretching yer... your wings, eh? You're ready ter leave the nest aren't you?" Davran sighed, placed an elbow on the ledge and, drawing the curtain across her chest, rested her chin in the cup of her hand. "I'll be able ter leave then. Others are relying on me too, you know. I've got ter take them a rainbow."

Down below, a door crashed against a wall. Davran quickly ducked, and, kneeling on the floor, peered over the ledge.

"Curse this blasted stuff!"

Davran looked on as Brant fled the mill in an explosion of flour. Plumes of white billowed on the breeze. Kale and Ronyn, stripped to their trousers, stopped playing catch and roared with laughter. Kale rolled on the grass holding his side. Davran found herself laughing too, as Brant patted himself and became a walking thunder cloud.

"Damn you woman for mixing me with this cursed stuff," Brant yelled as he entered the house.

Ronyn looked up at Davran's window and stopped laughing. Davran rolled away from the window and flung herself on the bed. Since she had killed the bird he had become more and more distant, avoiding her as much as possible. Occasionally she managed to catch a glimpse of him looking, staring. Judging? She got the impression he wanted to say something to her, but he never did. Words floated in his eyes, but never materialised. In those moments he had the soft, caring, considerate, expression he had worn when she first met him. But then, as if alternative thoughts had entered his mind, he would scowl, his expression as black as a thunderhead, and storm from the room. Still sulking about being a miller's son, Brant often said, after Ronyn had left the room. Davran knew different. It was her, and he wasn't sulking, he was angry, at her. She had killed the bird and he hated her for it. Brant would smile at her, looking slightly uncomfortable, as if to apologise for Ronyn's behaviour. She would miss Brant. He never once put pressure on her to tell him where she came from, or ask when she would return. She would, though, and soon. When the birds flew the nest she would leave too. There would be no other reason to stay.

* * *

Behind the house, just beyond the mill-pond, was a patch of scrub which seemed perfect. The tall grass would at least give them a chance. Davran placed a hand in her pocket and taking out the package crouched down. Hidden by the swaying grass, she unravelled the screwed paper bag and tipped out its contents. The golden nuggets spilled in a pile like small yellow rocks, and buried amongst them, now wriggling to the surface were mealworms, each and every one with a black spot.

"What're you doing?"

Davran flinched and trying to hide her minor revolution turned to look up at Ronyn. "Nothing."

"You are, let me see."

Davran leaned to the side, hiding the place where she had moments earlier dropped the blood soaked strips of towel. She drew up her knees and hugged them then smiled, a slightly skewed, half-smile, hoping it would distract his eye. She would have to bury the rags later. Ronyn crouched in front of her and leaned forward for a closer look. He scowled slightly and looked at Davran.

"It suddenly didn't seem right, killing them." She said hastily, leaning to block his vision. "It wer... it was like their lives didn't have any value. I fed the others to the birds, so they'd at least had a purpose. But these ones... They didn't ask to be born with black spots, did they?"

"I guess not." His voice broke into a rolling chuckle, a musical sound, and even though she thought he was laughing at her his laughter did not sound mocking. "They'll still get eaten out here though. The wild birds'll have them the moment you're gone."

"At least they'll have a chance. And, if they don't escape, they won't have died for nothing." She smiled, hoping to have the gesture returned.

Ronyn stood up, smiled, and ruffled Davran's hair. "Mum said to tell you dinner's ready."

* * *

Ronyn suddenly began talking to Davran: only about the birds though; always about the birds. How are they doing? Not be long and they'll be ready to leave. He seemed happy about it, as if he knew she would be leaving too. Every mention of them leaving the nest appeared to fill him with gladness, the balance of which was her sadness. It seems that everything has an opposite, she thought, nothing truly stands alone: light and dark; good and bad; man and woman; each and every thing determined only by what it is not.

One morning the birds were noisier than usual, singing at the sunlight streaming into her room. They fluttered above the nest, half leaping half flying. With each attempt they hovered a little longer. It was time and Ronyn would want to know. It was the main thing he talked about. 'How are the nestlings doing?' he would say. 'Let me know when they're ready to fly.' Davran brushed the heels of her hands along her cheeks, removing her tears. She sat on the edge of the bed and wound the yellow sheet around her chest. She checked in the mirror to ensure it was flat. She felt a little faint, so steadied herself against the bed until it passed. Her knee pressing the soft mattress, she recalled the hard pallet she slept on at home and wondered what her mother and father thought had happened to her, whether they still missed her, or were thankful they no longer had the burden of concealing a daughter. Maybe I should leave here but not go back either.

She mulled the thought over as she left the house in search of Ronyn.

Davran spotted Ronyn sat beside Kale at the edge of the mill-pond, their trousers rolled up, their feet tracing circles in the tepid water. She quickened her pace, an excitable trot along the mill-pond path, the nest in her hand, the birds fluttering above it. "I think they're ready." she shouted. "They want to fly."

Ronyn looked up as Davran drew near, shielding his eyes from the sun behind her. Ronyn sat for a while, gazing at her in silence. Eventually he got to his feet.

"We should take them to the trees." Ronyn's face lit with pleasure as he watched the birds leap. "They might fall in the water if we release them here. Coming Kale?"

"Too hot," he replied, laying back, absorbing the sun's rays.

Deep amongst the trees, Ronyn took the birds from the nest one by one and placed them onto a low branch. Davran's heart fluttered as they hopped from his powerful hands. He took his time with each of them, gently rolling his thumb over their plump breasts. He spoke to them in a soft tone, holding them close, cooing with a soft lilt, his warm breath ruffling their feathers. Davran inhaled, deeply, as she watched him stretch to the high branch, his hand remaining there until the little bird hopped away of its own accord. So patient, never forcing, always gentle, and yet strong.

"You've done a good job, Davran. Not one of them's died. Usually, at least one will. The weakest one, usually. These are all strong though, thanks to you. Look, see how they're flitting from branch to branch, getting more confident with each attempt."

Davran looked up, edging close to Ronyn. She could feel his warmth as he pointed and commented on the action, leaning towards her in order to see through the branches and point them out.

"Look, she's the bravest; she's flown to a higher branch. See, now the others are following her example. She's a natural leader, she is."

Davran swallowed, her heart flitting like the birds, as she stepped closer still. "How d'yer know it's a she?"

"The red splash of colour at her throat, the males is green. See, those two are males. It's easy to spot a female if you know what to look for."

"It is?"

"Yes. Look, there she goes: the brave one. Off to another tree now. The males are bigger, stronger, but the females are often the bravest. The ones to take a chance."

Davran drew her lower lip through her teeth and flinched as she bit slightly too hard. Only one bird now remained. A male. When it was gone Ronyn would have nothing to talk to her about. Without the birds she held no interest for him. The last male looked at the others in the opposite tree. It tweeted at them, fluttered from the branch, lighted on Davran's shoulder and sang her a song before flying away.

A solitary tear rolled down Davran's cheek.

Ronyn coughed then looked away as he noticed. "Come on," he said, punching Davran on the shoulder. "Don't be a girl. It was just time for them to leave that's all. They'll be fine. There's no need to cry about it."

"Yes, I..." Davran sniffed and forced a smile. "Time to leave."
Seventeen

Davran headed for the waterfall, determined to capture a rainbow or die trying. They were there for the taking, dancing in the fine mist of cascading water. Surely, if she were to reach the top, the point where there was no mist, they would not be able to climb any higher. She stormed ahead, not hearing the bird-song, oblivious of the stream trickling its way to the mill. She was also deaf to the pounding feet approaching from behind. A firm hand landed on her shoulder. She jolted to a sudden stop, pursing her lips, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Ronyn leaned forward, breathing heavily, his hands on his knees. "Where're you going?"

Looking into his eyes, Davran attempted to judge his mood. "To the waterfall. Ter... It needn't bother you. I'm just..."

"They won't be there," Ronyn said.

"Who won't be there?"

"The birds. They won't go back there. That's why you're going isn't it? They don't remember their parents like we do. I know you fed them for weeks, but they'll have forgotten you already. It's a matter of survival. They have to forget. They have to move on, live their own lives. If the young stayed with the parents then they'd all end up dying. That's just the way it is. Nature makes them forget."

"Maybe that's what I should do – move on."

"D'you want to?"

Davran shrugged. "S'pose."

"You don't look like you want to leave."

Ronyn looked into her eyes in a way that made her feel strange.

"I have too," said Davran.

"Why?" Ronyn asked. "And where to? I thought you'd forgotten where you came from."

Sucking in her cheek, Davran glanced over her shoulder and let her eyes trace the path leading to the waterfall.

"You don't have to leave on my account. I mean, I know I've not... it's not your problem, it's mine. It's nothing you've done. You could stay."

"But... You hate me because I killed the bird, don't you?"

"The bird? No. It's..." Ronyn shook his head. "It's not that."

Davran looked askance. "It's not the bird?"

"No."

"What is it then?"

* * *

Ronyn wrenched his gaze from Davran's and swam in the lime coloured hue of dense foliage. He looked back into Davran's eyes, the largest eyes he'd ever seen, round almost, and so brilliantly blue they shone, as if dusted with flecks of polished silver. They drew him in, beckoned him forward. He looked into them and saw his own reflection looking back.

A boy should not be so beautiful, Ronyn thought.

Davran smiled, slightly skewed, cute, a dimple in his left cheek. His soft lips parted and drew a shallow breath. Ronyn whipped his gaze back into the trees.

"I don't want to say. It's my problem. Alright?"

"Do you want me to stay?" Davran asked.

"Do what you like," Ronyn snapped. "I don't really care."

* * *

Ronyn turned and began walking back to the mill. Davran trotted to catch up. Did he want her to stay or not? Did she want to? Should she? The reference Ronyn had made about the young birds, about forgetting parents and moving on made sense. Live your own life. If the chicks don't leave they all die. Would her mother and father want her to go back? She could quite easily stay. She should go back, half wanted to. But what if she went back and then couldn't return? Then they'd have to hide a daughter again, a daughter who is more developed, more womanly. They'd all be in danger.

Ronyn walked on, his gaze fixed, fists clenched by his sides.

"Is it because you don't want to be a miller?" Davran asked, catching up with Ronyn.

"What?"

"The reason you're angry?"

"Yes... maybe... I mean... No, not exactly. I mean... partly. I want to train dragons like my dad did."

"Wouldn't that be dangerous?"

"I suppose... but..."

"You need ter live yer own life?"

"Ter and yer. Tut, tut." Ronyn smiled, broadly, but it quickly faded. "Yes," he said, flicking a glance at her. "My dad was a somebody. People knew him. He was proud of what he did."

"Isn't being a miller something ter... to be proud of? I think feeding people is important. Maybe you should be proud to mill flour."

"All very well, if it's what you want to do. You've got to be true to yourself. Dragon training's in our blood. My grandfather trained dragons, and his father did and his father's father did too. The men in our family have done it for generations, for thousands of years. Handling those young birds is as close as I've got to training anything."

"Will you do it then?" Davran glanced at him with a knowing smile. "Move on, live your own life?"

Ronyn huffed at the very suggestion. "Live my own life! I don't even know my own mind right now. I mean, you think you know yourself, who you are, and then you realise you don't."

Davran looked away, slightly puzzled by his response. "If Brant liked training dragons so much, why doesn't he want you to do it?"

"He had an accident. The same year I was supposed to become his apprentice. Someone left a barrel of nectar open and an untrained dragon drank it all. It's like throwing a flaming torch into a dry bush, apparently. It was a dangerous situation. Somebody had to control the dragon before it escaped the camp. My dad was the best, so it fell to him. He got badly burnt. Almost died. Would have if the Keeper hadn't been there. Mum went on and on about the danger, about not wanting to live without her husband. She pressured him to retire. And, that was that, he retired. My apprenticeship never even started."

They walked in silence for a moment before Davran, with slow deliberation, said, "Staying here then, at the mill, it's not sommat... something you want to do, but what you feel you should do. You're staying because it's what your parents want?"

"They want me to be safe. It's all any parent wants, I suppose, for their child to be safe, to grow into an adult and to be happy. You were happy, weren't you, when we let the birds fly, even though there are dangers out there for them? Even though you didn't really want them to go, even though you can't protect them anymore, you're happy that they're free, aren't you?" Ronyn sniffed contemptuously. "I'm safe alright, but I'll never be happy milling flour. I'm not living my own life. I'm living one that's been forced on me."

From the direction of the mill, came a yawping yell followed by an explosion of water. Ronyn ran ahead seeming to recognise whatever had made the sound. "Come on," he yelled, "let's join Kale in a swim."

Swim? Another new word.

Davran pondered it as she hurried to catch Ronyn. He outpaced her, ascending the grassy hill, legs racing, disappearing over the other side. By the time she reached the top, Ronyn was halfway between her and the mill pond, its flat surface reflecting trees in a beautiful picture of harmony. She would stay, she determined, live her own life. With the decision swirled thoughts of her mother and father, a sadness that flooded her heart.

There was no sign of Kale and she was glad of it. Ronyn slowed and turned to look at her, skipping with a side-stepping gate. He beckoned her to catch up, waving his hand. Davran, running down the hill, gained on him, laughing at the chase, her feet pounding the lush grass.

Ronyn was only yards from the water when a fleshy white streak sped from behind the mill. Mid-air it wrapped into a ball, tumbled, and crashed into the still water. In a myriad of harsh shimmering glints, the tranquil reflection was shattered. Davran flicked her gaze back to Ronyn. His belt hung from his waist. He was undoing his trousers, shuffling them down his legs, half skipping half jumping. He almost tripped. Davran held a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter as he stumbled forward, his arms reeling to capture his balance. Finally whipping the trousers free he swung them over his head and flung them aside. More graceful than his brother, Ronyn then dived, slicing the water like an arrow, barely making a ripple. Kale swam to the edge and struggled to wrestle himself over the mill-pond wall. Once out and standing erect, Davran saw that he too was naked. She let out a little squeal, averted her eyes, and heard a splash.

Swim, it seemed, meant take your clothes off and jump in water. Approaching slowly she chanced a look. A gut instinct, which felt something like the wise older sister of her friend fear, told her to flee. Her feet resisted the urge. Kale was back in the water, but now Ronyn was approaching the edge. He placed his hands on the pond-wall. His arms flexed, biceps bulging. His body rose through the surface and gushing rivulets streamed the length of him. Davran swung her gaze to the sky, pretending something had caught her attention.

"Come on Davran," Ronyn yelled. "The water's great."

"No! I don't want to." She turned and sat down. Resting an elbow to the ground, she combed the grass with her fingers, her ears alive with the sound of splashing and yelps of delight.

She heard Ronyn slice into the water. Davran lounged on the grass, casually plucking daisies, teasing their delicate petals until they fell apart. A rabbit hopped over the rise. It paused a moment before suddenly darting off to the right, a boisterous, larger rabbit bounding after it. You can tell which one is female, she thought, recalling Ronyn's words. She wondered if it liked being chased, when a small, bright coloured creature fluttered before her face. She rolled onto her back as it floated overhead. This place is bursting with life, she thought, wondering what it was. A bird, she reasoned, as its soft wings battled the breeze, the fluttering reminiscent of the feeling in her stomach.

"Davran, come on," Ronyn called.

"Scaredy cat," teased Kale, clambering out and splashing back with a loud cry.

Davran rolled onto her stomach and pretended to be absorbed with watching the delicate small bird battling the breeze, as she watched Ronyn cut through the water. His back arched slightly as his legs thrust his body forward. He was well away from the edge. No danger of him leaving the water unexpectedly. He swam behind a clump of reeds that obstructed Davran's view. Suddenly the reeds quivered and parted.

"If you don't come in," shouted Ronyn, forcing his way through, "I'll drag you in."

Davran squealed, covering her eyes, as Ronyn sprinted toward her. Leaping to her feet, she ran toward the house. She could hear Ronyn's feet pounding the grass. He was catching up, on her left. She darted right. He matched her altered course, attempting to cut off her escape.

Davran collided with something solid.

Whatever it was, it grunted and exhaled. Soft and rippling and yet progressively firming it held its ground. She fell backwards, landing on the grass, stars spinning in her vision.

"I'm surprised at you, young Ronyn," boomed an authoritarian voice. "To tease someone in such a fashion while wet and naked. Are you not ashamed?"

"Yes, Hesperus, Sir... Sorry."

Davran giggled, her face buried in her hands.

"Maybe you should get dressed and then join us in the house."

Davran heard Ronyn walk away. "He's gone now," the voice said. "You can open your eyes."

A leathery hand presented itself before her face. She took hold of it, and it helped her to her feet. An elderly man, tall and slender, robed in white, towered above. The sun was behind him and caused his face to be in shadow. His white hair, drifting in the breeze, captured the light, forming a halo. Davran gazed in awe at the glow which surrounded him, for some of the light he seemed to cast himself. Davran realised it was probably the bump confusing her mind. People do not cast light.

"Pleased to meet you, my dear," he said, placing a firm, controlling hand on Davran's shoulder as he guided her in the direction of the house. "You must be Davran."

When Ronyn entered the kitchen, struggling to draw a shirt over his damp torso, Hesperus was already seated at the table opposite Brant. Brant's face displayed the honour he felt at having the Keeper himself in his home. Felicia banged the kettle onto the range, muttering something about the Keeper-of-Knowledge not making social calls. Davran was sitting at the far end of the table, Hesperus to her right and Brant to her left. Hesperus locked his gaze on Ronyn, now standing before the table, his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Well?" said Hesperus.

"What?" said Ronyn.

"I think apologies are in order."

Ronyn glanced at his father, before looking back to Hesperus. "We was only having fun."

Hesperus raised his brow.

With a resigned sigh, Ronyn said, "Sorry."

"And Davran," said Hesperus turning to face her.

"It's alright, really," Davran said.

"Is it?" Hesperus, swung his sight like a pendulum between Ronyn and Davran. "Is it alright for a young man to unknowingly run around naked in front of a young woman? Is it alright for a young woman to trick a young man into embarrassing himself? Or to mislead a family who've shown her nothing but kindness?"

All eyes fell on Davran, as the colour drained from her face.
Eighteen

Davran's mind whirled through a kaleidoscope of images that rolled in and out of focus. Muffled voices, sharp and heavy, merged into one oppressive sound. Hot with ferocity she fought against constricting, cold, damp hands. Brant, she realised, was holding her wrists. Felicia was holding her head back, her grip like a vice, pulling at the muscles in her neck. Heat rose and flushed and rippled, fire and ice, mingling, rising and falling, rushing and spinning, as spots of blood dripped before her eyes. Hesperus held her legs, squeezing her knees and sending out an energy that seemed to paralyse her entire lower body. His bone-thin fingers, like pincers, dug into her flesh.

There was shouting in the room.

Was it Ronyn's voice?

Yes it was.

He sounded angry and kept yelling, "Don't hurt her! Don't hurt her."

Keep the secret, Davran, at all costs keep the secret. Through her panic she could hear her father's words. We're all done fer if yer don't. It was out now. Hesperus is in league with Saurian, she realised. He must be. No escape. They had her. It was no use. The secret was out. Drained of strength Davran gave up the fight and slumped with resignation.

"There now," said Felicia, panting.

The cold pressure on Davran's forehead became less forceful. The gripping on her legs and wrists relaxed. Brant moved to the front and looked into her eyes, a smile on his face. They're actually enjoying this, she thought. Maybe there's been others. What a fool I've been. No doubt they get a reward for returning those who've escaped.

"Nobody's going to hurt you," said Hesperus, smiling, patting her knee. Standing he wiped blood from his arm and cast a glance over Davran's head.

"You're safe here," said Brant, also looking behind her, sucking at his lower lip, wincing.

The dampness left her forehead.

"Is it true?" Ronyn stepped forward. "That you're a girl, I mean?"

She inhaled deeply, her eyes stinging, and blew a long breath while slowly nodding. They knew. Why deny it.

"Yes!" Ronyn sounded delighted. His face lit with a broad smile, he walked across the kitchen, thumping the air. A drop of blood splashed onto Davran's forearm as Felicia passed by and sat next to Brant. Felicia held a damp cloth to her cheek.

"I know you didn't mean to do it," said Felicia softly, returning Davran's sorrowful look. "You were afraid."

"Of what, though?" said Brant. "You fought like a wild cat when you came to."

"Came too?"

"You fainted"

"That's why I had the cloth on your head."

"And, when you fought to get free Felicia took the brunt. And all the while Ronyn's yelling at us not to hurt you," said Hesperus looking at Ronyn who was now grinning as if all his good times had arrived at once.

Through watery vision Davran shared with Ronyn a lingering gaze.

"It is true, then?" he asked again. "You're really a girl?"

Davran nodded, feeling the weight of the fifteen, almost sixteen, year old secret fall from her limbs.

Hesperus looked to the ceiling, shaking his head. "Ronyn, of course she's a girl! My word, she's more, she's almost a woman. Isn't it obvious? The signs are all there, despite her disguise."

Ronyn blushed. "Well... yes. I mean... I sort of knew... sort of... I mean, if..."

Hesperus turned to Ronyn with a knowing smirk. "When a stag chases a doe, has anyone told him she's female?"

"No, but..."

"The stag knows by instinct. He feels the attraction. He's drawn by an aura of which most humans are now blind. Some still feel it, the most sensitive amongst us, those with the capacity to listen to the call of their heart. They feel it."

"You felt this aura, then?" asked Ronyn.

"Yes, but I can also see a person's aura. It surrounds all of us. Everything in nature has it. It's kind of..." Hesperus paused a moment. "It's like a scent, but visual, seen, sort of, but with the mind not with the eyes. It looks like a mist rolling over a cold winter's pond. Seeing such a thing is an ability which others could perfect. You may have touched upon it yourself young Ronyn. It's a gut instinct. If we genuinely listen to our inner voice we would find we are rarely wrong. Unfortunately, many people are distracted and coerced by the more dominant senses – especially sight. A beautiful person warms the viewer's heart and blocks the message from the brain. Not that all beautiful people are bad of course, but nor does the opposite apply. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder – subjective you understand. People will almost always believe what they see over what they feel. In every case there's always a greater truth than eyesight reveals. Vision is about so much more than merely looking and accepting. True vision is thinking and reasoning. Thinking beyond what you see and what you think you already know."

The tap dripped above the sink full of empty pans, chiming a beat which resonated through the silent kitchen. The silence that followed Hesperus' small lecture hung suspended like the water droplets. They all looked at him, as if they expected him to continue at some point.

Hesperus himself broke the silence. "I suspect Davran has learned to look beyond the obvious." He nodded as if in answer to his own words, his narrowing eyes focusing on an inward thought.

The following afternoon was punctuated with tears and moments of disbelief, as the hours dragged by and Davran revealed the truth of her past and place from which she had escaped, how she had pretended to be a boy because where she came from girls risked being taken at the age of sixteen and trained to be sexual slaves by the tyrannical ruler, Saurian. In her world people trusted few. She lived every day in fear of death.

"Brant's well-travelled," Felicia finally said, "so why have we never heard of this place? And why hasn't something been done to stop this terrible man?"

"It's another world," Hesperus told them, "kind of". He then added that the matter was much more complex and a fuller explanation could wait. Now was not the time.

* * *

Hesperus considered Davran in the many silent moments. He had thought this other place, this other world so to speak, was a place of absolute evil. Yet here before his very eyes was a young woman who contradicted his belief. Absolute evil had a black aura around it.

Davran's Aura was almost pure white.

"Naturally, she must stay here," Felicia stated, sniffing, mopping her tears with the blood stained cloth.

"Ye-eess." Hesperus felt eyes fall on him as he stretched the word with doubt.

"You can't expect her to return?"

The time for delving into deeper explanation had arrived much sooner than Hesperus had expected. He did not have all the answers to hand. He did not have all the questions for that matter. The stars had to be consulted. Records needed to be perused at length. Ancient prophecy required fresh deciphering in light of such compelling evidence. There was, he recalled, a relevant mention in writings he had encountered years ago. The exact wording eluded him. Prophecy, he knew, makes little sense at the best of times. To force it to memory without a grounding of sense was nigh on impossible. He was almost certain, however, that it related to this event. Too many of the pieces, nonsensical on their own, were slotting together and a picture was beginning to form. The tract he had in mind related to a black dragon crossing the boundary.

That incident had already occurred.

Somewhere in the passage was mentioned a boy with the heart of a woman, and something about remaining pure. Pure – that was it, and something about fuel to the fire? Ambiguous, all of it. Language is slippery at the best of times. She must be instrumental in preventing the collapse of the boundary, somehow or other. Too much of a coincidence for it to be unconnected. Or was she instrumental in causing it to collapse? Snakes don't always mean harm, but their venom kills nonetheless.

If only he had the prophecy here.

It would make little difference.

It would still be ambiguous. He needed to study it in depth. She would probably have to be returned, and for that reason the black dragon would have to be trained rather than reconditioned. He had suspected as much. It was the reason he had not transposed it as yet. Only a black dragon could cross the boundary, and even then, only in exceptional circumstances. Old records, told of it. He recalled reading that when the boundary was new, still being created by the powerful wizards of ancient times, black dragons were constantly crossing over. Riding a black dragon, as far as he knew, was the only way Davran could be sent back. That part at least now made sense. Hesperus glanced at his ring. It undulated with varying hues and settled on a light absorbing blackish-purple: the colour of deceit. Brant was the only one who could train that dragon and he had already refused.

Others had already died trying.

Brant was the best.

It had to be him.

Hesperus placed his hands on the table, palms down, firmly planted. "I'm afraid Davran must return. The risk is far too great to even consider the possibility of her staying."

Brant turned to Davran who sat wide eyed, looking ready to run. He placed his large hand on her shoulder and squeezed a measure of comfort. "Don't worry Davran, you're staying here."

Hesperus looked into Brant's eyes, his expression blank. "She must return, Brant."

"I'll die before I let that happen."

"Don't threaten that which you will later regret." Hesperus's voice glided on the cutting edge of warning, his eyes locked with Brant's.

Felicia placed a quaking hand on her husband's forearm, which Hesperus read as unwavering support to her husband.

"Me too," Ronyn shouted, his fist striking the table.

"You all feel so strongly?" Hesperus gathered silent agreement from around the table. "And you're prepared to risk death to keep her safe, Brant?"

Eyes still locked, the two men considered each other.

"I am." Brant had fire in his eyes.

Brant knew the Keeper-of-Knowledge could do magic, but he was probably unaware that he could kill a man with a click of his fingers. Despite this, Hesperus suspected Brant would not back down. Not on this. He was counting on it.

"Brant, I made a request of you some weeks ago." He placed his right hand over the ring, hiding its accusatory mark of black-purple deceit. "A request which I am now re-submitting: namely the training of a black dragon."

"I remember. It was an honour to be asked. But, the answer is still no. I'm retired."

"You want me to go against that which I must do. My gut instinct is rarely wrong. I should send Davran back."

"And if I train the dragon?"

"I'll let her stay with you."

Hesperus watched Brant chew on the proposition, his aura giving away the essence if not the exact letter of his inner thoughts. Hesperus knew that if it not for Felicia Brant would have already leapt at the opportunity. Brant desired nothing more than the chance to train a black dragon. His aura, coloured with desire, undulated with the hue of commitment to a promise already made. Hesperus was counting on Brant thinking he had the upper hand. The bargain on offer appeared to be in Brant's favour. In Brant's mind it was already a done deal. As far as he was aware it was a win win situation. Hesperus watched Brant feign deep thought, massaging his chin in a play of long consideration.

While looking into Brant's eyes, reading his thoughts, he covered the ring, knowing it would now be as black as his conscience, glad that his own aura was invisible to all in the room.

Brant looked at Felicia. She gave a slight nod of her head.

"Alright, I'll do it. You'll be safe here at the mill, Davran."

"No." Hesperus said, firmly reaffirming his resolve on the matter. "That is not the deal. I said, I would let her stay with you, Brant. You are to be responsible for her. Wherever you go she goes. Do you agree?"

Brant shook his head in disbelief. "I'll be staying in the dragon camp, that's no place for a young woman. Dangerous dragons and young men on the prowl. I'll be busy. I can't take care of her. It wouldn't be right. You've got what you wanted; I've agreed to train the dragon. Why not let her stay here, with Felicia?"

"Wherever you go she goes. That's the deal. The only deal. Do you agree to it?"

"We'll all go," offered Felicia, glaring at Hesperus. "As if this poor girl hasn't suffered enough."

"That I can agree to." Hesperus visibly brightened. "In fact I'll have a word with the council, see if we can't arrange accommodation in the centre of town. You all deserve a little luxury. So, do you agree Brant?"

"Yes."

"No. You must state it. I need to hear you say the words: I will train the black dragon, and wherever I go Davran will travel with me."

"As long as she can stay with Felicia while I'm training the dragon."

"Of course. I'll fix some fine accommodation in town, close to the camp."

"Very well, I agree. I'll train the black dragon, and wherever I go Davran will travel with me."

Hesperus made his excuses to leave, telling the family how he would travel with them, but that there were matters he needed to look into beforehand. Trouble at Hobb's Head, rising like a storm cloud and drifting towards the Onktor valley, civil unrest which would be crushed before it spread, as well as other trifling matters of record keeping. They had ten days, he informed them, by which time he would expect Brant to be at Southern Scar and ready to begin training the black dragon.
Nineteen

It was much hotter at Southern Scar than it had been up north by the mill, but it was dry too. Less humid, Ronyn had put it. Less humid: that meant not sticky. More comfortable. Davran liked Southern Scar; a lifetime of cold makes you appreciate the heat more than most.

She felt content but still too afraid, as yet, to be happy.

An insistent smile crept onto her lips as she glanced over her shoulder, turning from side to side. "Is that really me?" she gasped, mesmerised by her reflection, twirling, delighting in the material's soft whisper as it kissed her legs. "I never believed I could look like this."

"Amazing isn't it, how a length of silk can transform a girl into a woman?" Felicia smiled. "Warms my heart to see it."

The dress was a pearlescent blue and had the most delicate of straps. A slight tuck at the waist caused it to caress her hips and skim her thighs. It finished just below the knee. Not the fanciest of dresses – the best Felicia could manage with her limited capability – but what a difference it made.

"How could we have mistaken you for a boy?" Felicia said. "Where were we looking?"

Large tears rolled silently down Davran's cheeks, tumbled from her quivering jaw and spread into the delicate fibres, darkening where they fell.

"I wish my parents could see me."

"Of course you do dear." Felicia sniffed, turned and began putting away pins. "And wouldn't they have been proud? Any parent would be." Stepping across the room Felicia then took a white box from the side and held it to her chest a moment before turning with her arms outstretched. "These are for you, my dear."

Davran opened the box with a forced smile and liberated a pair of silver sandals. Azure stones embellishing the delicate straps glinted on the silk as she held them to her chest.

"They used to be mine, believe it or not. Can't think why I kept them. Actually, that's not entirely true. They would have gone to my daughter, but you're as close as I've come to that, so now they're yours."

Davran flung her arms around Felicia's neck and gave her a tight embrace. "Thank you, they're beautiful. It's all so beautiful. I never knew things could be so beautiful."

Felicia hugged her in return. "Come on now, those tears are going to spoil your pretty face. You don't want to be all red and blotchy at the dance. A bit of paint on your face, eh? I've a delicate silver chain you can have, too. It'll finish that dress off a treat."

"Felicia."

"Yes dear?" Felicia replied, her back turned as she rummaged through a nest of boxes.

With a nervous edge to her voice Davran spoke quickly. "I took the yellow sheet that time. I wrapped it around me to hide my... my."

"Your breasts, dear. That's alright. I understand."

"I took the towel too. My moon-blood came, and I... It was the first time and I didn't know what to do. I tore it into pieces, and..."

"Oh, my dear, that's alright." Seeing the look of worry on Davran's face Felicia rushed across the room and grasped both her hands. "I wish I'd known. Well, I know now, don't I. Want to talk about it?"

Davran nodded and they sat on the bed.

* * *

The rented rooms were expensively furnished. Hesperus had done them proud. The Foundation of Dragon Trainers had spared very little expense in accommodating Brant and his family. Every surface gleamed with luxurious polished wood. Large floral displays reflected from the surfaces on which they stood and filled the rooms with fragrance. 'No doubt', Felicia had stated the moment they had entered, 'they hope Brant will be persuaded to stay beyond the training of this one dragon; lovely accommodation though,' she'd added, sighing and smelling the large spray of peach-coloured-lilies.

On the fire-mantle a glass decanter of amber liquid caught the flickering light of a vanilla scented candle. Brant spotted a note beneath it. As he pulled the stopper and poured himself a drink he realised it was Foundation paper. Emblazoned with a golden dragon, it simply stated: Compliments of Chairman Storrit.

And now, sat waiting, looking at the decanter, already three measures lighter, Brant swirled a measure around the glass before swallowing. He nodded to the decanter and said, "Cheers," raising the empty glass in acknowledgement. To Brant's left, Ronyn paced up and down the extravagant, deep-piled rug, threatening to wear it threadbare on their first evening. A narrow shaft of sunlight cut through the room and caught the shine of his shoes each time he stepped through it.

"Nervous son?"

Brant glanced up from the heavy book in his lap, an expression of deep concentration masking his mirth. Kale, sat beside him, fidgeting, causing the sofa's deep-red leather to creak. Digging his podgy fingers into the tight collar, he complained about being unable to breath. Brant gave his young son a wry smirk. Ronyn stopped for a moment, looked out the window, glanced up the staircase, puffed out his cheeks and set off again without answering.

Looking again at Kale, Brant shook his head then fell back into the book. "Kale, undo the top button if it's too tight. No need to suffer just for appearance sake. Ronyn, stop pacing, it's only a dance."

"Yes, but it's in your honour. Look at where we're living – we could never afford to live in the poor part of town – never mind here. You're the focus of attention. It'll be like, like all eyes will be on us."

"So you're worried on my account? And that's all, is it? Nothing else?" Brant remained buried in the text, smirking, his forefinger idly caressing the embossed dragon on the cover as his small finger slid over the gold-leaf inscription of his grandfather's name. A look of concentration washed over his expression and he muttered, "Wah-tilp; Sh-hillah." Momentarily pausing he tried to force the ancient language to memory. Any command would do when taming a beast – simply a matter of word/action association – he knew that, but there was something about using the ancient language, particularly to command a black dragon, that made it seem somewhat more special. Magical.

The shaft of sunlight took on a reddish hue as the evening lengthened. Once more Ronyn turned to cut through it but stopped dead in his tracks as it lighted on Davran.

"Wow!"

"Well, don't you brush up a treat." Brant whistled, closing his book, rising from the sofa. "Best be on your guard tonight son," he said, placing the empty glass on the mantle. "There'll be plenty wanting to steal this jewel – a real diamond and no mistake."

"Ready then, good sir?" said Felicia performing an over enthusiastic curtsy in Brant's direction.

"I certainly am, madam," Brant replied, echoing her tone, offering her his arm as he made for the door.

* * *

Davran marvelled at the streets. Beautiful by day they were magical at night, lanterns lighting every dark corner. Where she was once used to skulking through shadows, she now sauntered amongst pools of golden light. Voices drifted from distant streets and she no longer flinched. Here there were no magistrates, no spies reporting to Saurian's guard. Strangers, it seemed, could be trusted rather than feared.

The family paused before entering the silent town hall. They stepped over the threshold and met rapturous applause. Instantly the most evocative sounds came from a group of stiff looking men in the corner. Davran's mind swam in the melody. It made her want to sway her hips, to feel the swish of silk on her legs. She resisted, but her mind wandered, and she recalled Ronyn swimming in the pond that day and couldn't help thinking that this music would have been a fitting accompaniment. How could such stiff men produce such rippling sounds?

An official looking gentleman approached, his eyes drawn droopy by a heavy looking moustache. He shook Brant's hand with such force it seemed he intended to wrench it off and have it for a souvenir. He then leaned in and kissed the air beside Felicia's cheek. As he stood upright and inflated his chest he beckoned them to follow him on a meandering route through the room. His head swivelled from side to side nodding to this official and that. As he spoke to each group he changed the tone of his voice. When they reached the head table, he allowed his chest to deflate.

"Here we are; pride of place. Now, anything you want Mr. Edmond. Anything at all, you just ask... anything."

"Mr. Storrit, please, call me Brant."

"Of course, Brant, yes. Good to have you back, Brant."

"It's only temporary."

"Mrs Edmond. Yes, of course it is."

"Felicia!"

"Felicia, yes. Is the accommodation to your liking?"

A change of expression warmed Felicia's face as she held her hand to her chest. "Oh, it's beautiful. I particularly like the–"

"Good, good. Must mingle. Anything, remember. Just holler. Marvellous. Enjoy, enjoy."

Felicia glared as Mr Storrit departed, glancing over his shoulder as he slithered through the collection of bodies. Some he completely blanked, others he spoke to, every time affecting a different tone.

"Social chameleon," Brant huffed as he leaned back in his chair and scanned the room. "Tells lies when the truth would do. Thinks one thing, but says another."

"Mmm," Felicia muttered.

"Man's a fool." Brant chuckled. "You'll rue the day. That's what he told me when I left. Do you recall, Felicia. I told you didn't I? That's what he said. Ha ha. You'll live to regret this Brant, you see if you don't. And now he's leaving gifts of brandy on the mantle, which he's also paying for, I might add."

"Mmm."

"You'll rue the day. Hah! Look at him now, tripping over himself to shake me by the hand. Guest of honour no less. Pride of place. Anything. Just holler. Ha ha."

Felicia picked up a breadstick. "You enjoying yourself?"

"Eh? I should say so!"

Snapping the bread-stick, Felicia pointed a crumbling end at Brant's nose. "You're not thinking of staying on after, are you?"

"No-oo! No. Just enjoying the moment. May as well make the most of it, eh? Pigs in muck and all that. Cats and cream."

"Mmm." Felicia looked away. "Dragon trainers and swollen heads."

"What was that dear?"

"Nothing dearest," she said, turning back with a sardonic smile. "You just enjoy yourself."

Davran allowed Brant and Felicia's exchange to drift away, as a group of young men meandered like minnows around the end of the head table. Each of them in turn, tried to persuade her to take a spin on the dance floor. One was rather fat and looked as if he'd been squeezed into his younger brother's waistcoat. One was tall and looked as if he had borrowed the same brother's trousers. One was skinny and had obviously borrowed the fat one's clothes. One was greasy with black hair pasted back and a forehead that looked too large. One was loud. One was quiet. One was spotty. One had fat lips. One had thin lips. One had a dimple in his chin full of razor eluding hair.

Davran chuckled as their words of enticement, their ideas of persuasion melted like snowflakes on a fire. Each of them was charming in his own way, but every single one of them had the exact same flaw: he was not Ronyn. She was, however, eager to try this thing they called dancing. The static men in the corner played their instruments and managed to make the room flex. She felt its undulation. It had captured her from within. For an instant, a fleeting, uncomfortable moment, she recalled the beating drum in the arena that day. Her pulse raced a few steps. That drumbeat had gripped her heart and altered its rhythmic beat. This was different though, that distant drumbeat was coldly calculated, forceful and menacing, whereas this was persuasive and encouraged a voluntary surrender. She tapped her feet to the rhythm, her back turned slightly away from Ronyn. Her eyes cast down.

The music grew in intensity as the evening wore on. Tables had mostly been stripped of food. Drink flowed freely. The stiff official air had escaped its leash and was now dancing drunk on the dance-floor. Even Mr. Storrit's many voices had retired for the night as he criss-crossed the polished-planks, his cheeks bulging and red, speaking over-loudly in a high pitched squeal. Kale bobbed around dancing-couples as he returned from a food hunting expedition, and drawing greasy fingers through his lips he navigated his way past Davran's chair. She could stand it no longer. The tempo was building and she had to dance. She was captured now, well and truly captured.

She stood abruptly, grabbed Kale's wrist, and yanked him behind her like a reluctant puppy. The plate of food he was carrying clattered onto the table, a bread roll escaping into Felicia's lap. Brant retrieved it and, leaning back in his chair, tore away a mouthful and laughed as Kale's legs buckled and jerked in a side stepping backward gait. Ronyn's top lip curled as he watched his young brother trip onto the dance-floor. Davran dragged Kale into the middle, masked by a forest of swaying bodies. The music stopped with a striking note and Davran scowled. Kale shrugged his shoulders, smiled and turned to leave. The band struck up another tune. Davran grasped his wrist and tugged him back. A fast, urgent, almost furious sound rebounded around the walls. Davran almost regretted her impulsive action as she looked around her. Others seemed to be enjoying the movement. It had something. It wasn't dreamy like the previous tune, but it was still captivating. Others, especially the younger ones, were definitely enjoying it – even Kale.

Their arms were raised, waving around as if fending off insects. Kale, stood before her, was doing likewise, his eyes shut and his chubby body gyrating. Davran laughed and gradually raised her arms, but it felt uncomfortable, exposed. Earlier on, sitting on the chair, tapping her feet, dancing had looked easy. She could feel the beat, but her body, somehow, refused to respond.

The furious music stopped with an abruptness as sudden as its beginning. A loud cheer erupted and people clapped as the lights in the room dimmed. Men and women walked onto the dance-floor and embraced as a soft melody sounding much like rippling water trickled through the hall. Kale shot away as if his life depended on it. Davran stood on the floor alone as the lights shrank into the ceiling and a purplish haze flooded the hall. A fog, much like the evening mist on the mill pond, drifted over the floor and coloured it like a violet cloud. It was as if the room itself were falling to sleep. Small points of light twinkled on the dark ceiling and caught in the polished boards at her feet.

Brant and Felicia swept towards her and smiled. Brant enveloped Felicia in his arms as they twirled across the boards, stars reflecting beneath them as if they were floating on a night sky. While other couples drifted onto the floor the music rippled and swayed. Davran stood alone and embraced the scene, wishing.

"Davran?"

"Yes," she said spinning on her heels, her heart pounding.

"Would you like to...? Will you dance with me?"

She answered with a smile. Ronyn took her in his arms and the floor seemed to melt. It was the night sky and Davran was floating in it. She had only one thought at that moment: why reach for rainbows when you can dance amongst the stars?
Twenty

Stone fragments exploded into the enclosure amid fingers of flame. From the resulting hole there billowed acrid smoke, and coughing, gasping for air, Brant hurled himself through. He rolled to the side, his shoulder grinding on splintered rock, as a further portion of the wall crashed to the ground. The dragon followed, its lithe neck coiling back, its spread wings blocking the sun. Its chest expanded as it drew air through flared nostrils.

Backed into the corner, his hands flat to the brick walls, Brant could go no further.

The service yard, Twenty feet by thirty, shrank as the dragon's wing claws scratched the brick walls on either side. No hiding place. Brant had his cloak but knew it would only deflect a small amount of flame: one blast at best. It would not save him. Still, he whipped it from his shoulders and held it aloft like a flimsy shield. Behind it he cowered as tongues of fire roared over him. The cloak had deflected the blast this time, but it would not hold out much longer, nor would it deflect the creature's bite which would certainly be its next choice of attack. Brant struggled to draw breath, the oppressive heat delving deep and stripping his lungs of moisture.

The dragon inhaled, preparing for another blast. The cloak ruined, smouldering on the brink of collapse, Brant threw it aside. "Stupid fool," he cursed, thinking about the case he'd left at the far end of the room. The dragon took a step closer, brushing against walls, splintering the bricks. Brant huddled, covering his head, awaiting the inevitable.

"What're you doing?" He shouted out, as if observing himself.

His cry seemed to momentarily confuse the dragon. It tipped its head sideways, as if weighing up the threat. An impassable barrier, it stood between Brant and the hole in the wall. Squinting through the falling dust and swirling smoke, Brant quickly judged the distance, calculated gaps, possible routes of escape. There was only one, and it was not without risk. He was not as quick as he used to be. Quicker than a black dragon? Probably not. Maybe there was a chance though. Over a small distance, from a standing start, a man can beat even a horse. It's not over, yet. In this tight space her movement is constricted.

Standing there thinking about it was suicidal and, Brant could tell, as the swirling fumes coiling like ribbons into the creatures nostrils began to slow, that the creatures lungs were almost full. He had to make a decision, and quick. To produce a good heat she had to hold her breath for around thirty seconds. Her wings were already dislocated and she was vibrating her flight muscles to generate the energy. At present, committed as she was to generating fire, she could not fly. It was his window of opportunity. This very moment. It was his only chance.

Brant sprang forward, heading directly for the dragon's jaws. As the creature snapped her jaws, he suddenly darted right, in the direction of the hole. He then dodged left and snaked between the dragon's front legs. The creature's jaws snapped at the point where he had changed direction. Had he continued heading for the hole she would have had him. Her snake-like neck followed him under her body. It was going as Brant had planned. There was no way she could strike with speed or force now. Her balance was off. Brant immediately dodged right and threw himself with full commitment toward the hole. Behind he heard the dragon crash to the ground.

His foot landed on loose rubble which rolled, twisting his ankle, throwing him sideways. Pain ripped up his leg. He twisted in uncontrollable agony as his knee buckled. His chest hit the floor, the pounding thud exploding air from his lungs. He grunted, expelling strings of spittle and blood, shards of flint shredding his flesh and cutting deep into his ribs. Adrenaline masked his pain, as in a movement that seemed fluid, carried by momentum, Brant regained his footing. Limping he hobbled forward, howling with each step. In the far corner, tormentingly distant, was his case. He fixed his eye on it and struggled forward. Pain coursed through him, each step firing a shot of gut-squeezing-torture.

The beast crashed through a fresh section of wall. Broken debris flew into Brant's back, pelting him like heavy rain. Sunlight filtered through the hole but was swallowed by the roiling dust. A dragon-shaped shadow cast on the sublime mist loomed before Brant. He judged from the shadow that the beast was flying low to the ground. It would gain on him fast that way, faster than if it had been walking; at least it could not generate fire in flight. He heard the snap of its jaws. It sounded close. Half its teeth were missing; the remainder no less deadly. As long as his hand and sharp as splintered glass, only one was needed to kill a man. The reality of that thought struck home as he began to realise he would not reach the case in time. He hoped for a tooth. Better that a major artery be severed, or the heart or brain be punctured, than to be crushed slowly in the clamp of its gums. The idea of having the life squeezed out of him while he stared into its black eyes, of seeing his own light slowly extinguish and drift beyond the veil of life, was not pleasant.

All at once a lance of brilliant light pierced his vision. The light shrank to a bright, narrow slit then vanished, leaving him momentarily blind. A clang reported from the spot where it had been, the sound of the heavy iron door striking against its frame.

"Dad?"

"Get out, Ronyn." Brant stumbled as he raced toward the case with renewed vigour. His foot struck the ground and he fell forward, screaming, as splintered bone ripped through his flesh. "Achggrrr. Go!" he panted, his head swimming on the verge of passing out. "Go! Now! Get out. Run."

Ronyn snatched the case, wrenched it open and grasped a silver horn. In eagerness he almost dropped it. Raising it to his lips, his hands still in mid-fumble, he blew hard. It emitted a flat rasping sound. Brant rolled onto his back as he hit the ground and saw the jaws descending. A transient high-pitched note sliced the air. The dragon shuddered and paused, twitching as the note pierced its nerves. Brant shuffled back, kicking the dirt with his good leg, stealing his screams with clenched teeth. The note warbled, rasping as the chamber rattled with spit.

"Not so hard," Brant bellowed, twisting to look at Ronyn.

Ronyn blew again. The note warbled; a useless wet whistle.

The dragon shook away the sensation and stepped forward, anger evident in its ground shaking force. Suddenly, the note struck pure again and stabbed at the creature's senses. It recoiled, a tremor travelling its spine. The note faltered once more. Seeming all the more driven the dragon snapped, her jaws missing Brant by a fraction, hot drool spraying on her humid breath.

"Get out!" Brant commanded, his tone weak, his head swirling with nausea. "Go... now. Go... while you can."

The door opened wide, immersing Brant in brilliant light. He relaxed, knowing his son was safe, and his vision became a haze of swirling fog. As he looked up, beams of light highlighted the dragon's jaw. Brant resigned himself to meet his maker. Ronyn would be safe. Brant had applied salve to his skin. The salve would poison the beast and that would be an end to it. The poison was not instant. Had Ronyn stayed he would not have had time to escape. What would happen to Davran now? Wherever you go she goes, Hesperus had said. He was about to die. There was nothing he could do for her now. Shaking away the thought he forced himself to focus. He judged where the canine would fall, intending to steer his head in its direction when she launched. The jaw filled his vision as it plummeted towards him.

"This is it."

The impact had a bone-shattering force. Semi-conscious, like a kicked pebble, he tumbled the length of the arena and crashed against the far wall where a heavy blanket of silence smothered him. Am I dead? Even thinking the thought was difficult, as if he had to reach through syrup to grasp it. He could no longer feel the pain. He could no longer feel anything. It was as if he had left his pain wracked body behind. Of course, he rationalised, the dead have no need of a body. If this was death, it was not what he had expected. It was dark; it was lonely; it was surreal. He had hoped that death would be comforting, at the very least nothingness.

Quite unexpectedly a sudden gush of sound roared through his syrupy thoughts, bringing an indescribable pain. The pain quickly eased however, as Brant's vision, clouded with fog, swirled in a vortex before settling upon blurred silhouettes. Behind them his eyes settled on the most welcoming light.

"Father? Mother?"

Nausea rolled his mind and a blast of pain wrung his gut. This surely was not the promised comfort of death. This was certainly the pain of tenaciously gripping onto the sharp edge of life. His vision gradually cleared and through the haze he saw Hesperus. It seemed he had survived.

"Give him another drop, Ronyn."

"Ronyn?" croaked Brant, switching his gaze to his son.

Ronyn gripped Brant's chin and eased open his jaw.

A sickly-sweetness spread over Brant's tongue and oozed down his throat. He spluttered, coughing as some of it entered his lungs. Pain shot through his body. His vision faded and then brightened. His head swam. The ground seemed to rise and fall, ebb and flow, flow and sway, sway and fall, fall and rise, rise and fall. His hearing was muffled, washing back and forth as light faded and faded and faded into darkness.

* * *

"Shall I give him more?"

"Not yet, Ronyn. His body won't take the pain. We'll let him sleep for a moment."

Hesperus placed a hand on Ronyn's shoulder and glanced at the dragon, now frozen in stasis. Was it worth the risk? The life of a man he respected, a good man, had been moments from ending. How fate dangles us like puppets. To think, a delay of only seconds and Brant would have been no more. Hesperus felt heavy with guilt. But what if the boundary were to fall? How many will die then? He was risking the life of one, but it was in exchange for the lives of thousands, hundreds of thousands. Deceiving a good man, a friend, was painful; the alternative was unthinkable.

While attending to Brant's injuries, he listened to Pantal and Khalil's hushed discussion at the far end of the arena, where they stood beneath the dragon's shadow.

Khalil sniffed. "So this is a black dragon."

"Stinks." Pantal wrinkled his nose as he scanned the parchment.

"I thought we'd have had time to rest before starting."

"Yes, a bath maybe, or at least a meal." Pantal rolled through the parchment, revealing a different section, and traced it with his finger. "I did not take this job for excitement."

Khalil gripped Pantal by the shoulders and as his cousin looked up from the parchment turned to face the dragon. "But look at it, cousin. A black dragon."

Pantal rolled his eyes.

"How can you be so dismissive Pan? How many people do you suppose have seen a black dragon?"

Pantal rolled the parchment and let his arms dangle loosely by his side. "I don't want excitement. I'm tired. I never wanted to travel south. I had hoped Hesperus would have allowed us more time, or even left us behind. The projections from the stars have become more illuminating with each passing night, and who, if not us, will keep the records up to date?"

"Pah! Records, smeckords. This is the real stuff." Khalil gazed at the dragon. "We had to come. No time for delay, Hesperus said. This is more important than records. He told Brant he'd only be ten days. We're seven days late."

Khalil raked his fingers through his hair as he looked across the arena. Hesperus was helping Brant to sit up. Ronyn tipped liquid into his mouth. "Imagine if we'd been any later?"

"Hesperus would have got here quicker if he hadn't come to collect us." Pantal emphasised his point by raising his brows.

"Well I'm glad to be here." Shaking his head, Khalil took the rolled parchment from Pantal and unrolled a section. "Fuel to the fire?" he questioned, pointing to a particular point on the scroll. "That's the phrase which always confused me most, but I suppose it has to be related to the dragon."

"Could mean nectar." Pantal said. "They produce more fire when they drink nectar. Fuel to the fire, it's obvious."

"Mmm, maybe. Here's the full section: When crosses the veil a boy with woman's heart the boundary is set to fall. Then it says: A heart of dark beats not long in overwhelming light. Then here it's indecipherably smudged, but it continues: turn – I think. Maybe return. Yes, it's definitely return. return something, something flighted lizard of black, for if purity stands with hatred, love with desire, the fuel to the fire, all may not be lost. It's indecipherable again beyond that."

"Nectar's pure. I tell you it means nectar."

"Nectar can't stand!"

"No."

"And if it could, what significance would it have?"

"Return flighted lizard of black. What's that mean?"

"Return to the dark world from whence it came of course."

"Is it? Is it maybe not returned here?"

"How could it be? Return means go back. And, the return of... you know?"

"Of course, it has to mean her too. But it's so ambiguous: may and if. This prophecy is as slippery as a sack full of eels."

"Read on, see if anything else makes sense."

Brant groaned as the pain of looming consciousness hacked at his body.

"Give your father some of the other potion now, Ronyn." Hesperus, said, sounding somewhat distracted. "Purity? Fuel to the fire?" he muttered, glancing at the dragon. He gave a straight-lipped smile as his eyes fell on Khalil and Pantal approaching.

"What happened," Brant croaked, wincing as he came to.

"I was about to blow the horn again when Hesperus pushed me aside. He shot his hand forward just as the dragon was about to... well you were gone and it snapped thin air. It's what knocked you out. Hesperus sent a blast of air that cannoned you across the arena."

"There was no time to be gentle," Hesperus interjected.

"A moment later and... well you... he came just in time."

"Or maybe three days too late." Hesperus shook his head. "Here drink this. What possessed you to start without me? I told you to await my return."

Brant looked at Hesperus, his eyes bleary, half closed, his hair nothing more than nodules of carbon peppering his bald scalp. The new potion slid down easy and was a pleasure to drink. It flowed into his muscles and soothed his joints. A drunken expression distorted his mouth and he smiled like a simpleton.

"Foolish pride, I s'pose. I was the talk of the town. A celebrity. It went to my head. I had something to prove. A dragon's never got the better of me yet. Never needed a Keeper to help me in the past and I get fed up of waiting. Course, I was shocked to discover it was still black. I removed the incapacity spell without looking, and then... well... you see the result. Still you're here now. By the time I've recovered you'll no doubt have it golden and ready for training."

"No."

"No?"

"It has to remain black." Hesperus made no effort to hide the conviction in his voice.

"That's impossible." Brant suddenly looked alert. "It can't be done."

"It has to be," shouted Khalil. "It's mentioned in prophecy."

"It's essential," Pantal confirmed.

"It's suicidal." Brant shook his head, wincing, no doubt still feeling some of the pain. He narrowed his vision, forcing his eyes to focus. The dragon loomed before them like a suspended shadow – a black void in the half lit room. "I won't do it. I'd rather kill the thing."

Hesperus firmed his jaw, a grey expression colouring his face. "I'm afraid I can't let that happen. And, if you refuse to train the dragon it is Davran who will probably have to die."

Brant stared into the keeper's eyes. "You're not the man I thought, if you really would kill that innocent girl?"

"Innocent. Is she? Brant, I do have reasons for my actions. And we had a bargain. You train the black dragon, and in exchange she may live and remain with you. Her life is in your hands, Brant, not mine."

"It'll take my bones weeks to heal. I'll continue then."

Hesperus shook his head. "There's no time for that. It may take months to train the creature, and time is of the essence. I can give you potion for your pain, and I'll be here to block any attack from the dragon."

Brant sniffed and then scowled, derisively. "I still need speed. You can't give me potion for that."

Hesperus glanced at Ronyn and Brant shook his head.

"No-oo! No. No way."

His eyes wide with excitement, Ronyn looked from Brant to Hesperus and back. "Why not? You can instruct me, Dad. I'm fast and strong. I've read all your notes and I've been skimming through Grandad's book – that's how I knew about the horn. It's in our blood. Dragon training's in our blood. You told me that yourself. I've watched you before. I know more than you think."

"No, I'll not allow it. Your mother'd kill me. The answer's no. For your mother's sake, if nothing else, I refuse."

"For Davran's sake, then," Ronyn pleaded. "Let me do it for her."
Twenty One

As much a student as the dragon, Ronyn relied heavily on Brant's knowledge and the protection Hesperus provided. Nine weeks into the training the Keeper and Brant became mere spectators. Only at the end of a session was Hesperus needed. Felicia had fumed in the early days, refusing to talk to her husband. Now, seeing how happy her son was, she realised it was not right to stand in her son's way. More than that, though, her direct refusal would have put Davran's life in her hands. Ronyn was now a man in his own right. He had the right of choice; it was his life, his existence. A life lived without choice is no life at all, she reasoned. If Ronyn was going to train a dragon, especially a black dragon, what better situation could there be than her own husband as teacher, and the keeper himself for protection.

To Brant, Felicia presented a mellowing annoyance.

In secret she flushed with pride.

A miller's life did not suit Brant. And the luxuries of town living were very much to her liking. Brant was not yet aware, but she had already decided that they were staying. Davran had become the daughter she had always wanted. An overflow of motherly affection now pooled around one who appreciated it. Distracted by Davran, she allowed her sons to delve in more manly pursuits. She feared for Ronyn's well-being, but she had never seen him happier. Even Kale enjoyed this freedom. Befriending a neighbour's boy, he discovered a talent for archery. With virtually no training he came fourth in a local contest and was entered in a regional competition to take place two weeks hence.

Life was suddenly so full of promise.

But, the sooner this Black dragon was trained the better.

Once it was trained they could relax and Davran, as Hesperus had promised, could remain with them. It would all be over. Ronyn would continue to train dragons of course. He had an affinity for it. Besides, after training a creature of pure evil, the rest would be no more dangerous than rearing cattle. Yes, the sooner it was done with the better. There was something about this black dragon business, though, that Felicia could not quite put her finger on. Something niggled which she did not like, something which crawled through her subconscious like a parasitic worry; nothing that she could grasp, just a sense of incompleteness. It was partly the secrecy surrounding its training and the necessity for it remaining at heart a creature of darkness which unnerved her. She knew Brant had concerns too – they were unspoken – a wrinkle in his brow when he smiled, shadows in his complexion – subtle signs but more than obvious to Felicia.

The only one who had no concern was Ronyn. In an unprecedented move, he had even named the dragon. It was this very action, Brant had told her, the unquestioning tenderness he had for the creature, which had given him the edge. It had allowed him to command the creature's respect where others, even Brant, had failed.

Felicia sighed as she watched a solitary cloud drift in an expanse of clear blue. Looking out to the East, over hot barren ground, she considered the shimmering haze, a blurred boundary with no definable edge.

* * *

Ronyn stood before Basalt and fixed a firm gaze on its black eye. The gnarled lid, resembling boiled-leather, closed over the black orb and hid its reflected surroundings. Flared nostrils expanded and sucked in air. The upper lip curled, showing a glimmer of shattered fang.

Brant hobbled to Ronyn's side, "be careful," he whispered.

The eye opened and reflected father and son. Standing close to the Dragon like this, the only safe place was behind Ronyn. As far as the dragon was aware Ronyn was untouchable. Throughout early training, every time it had attacked, Hesperus had created a wall of impenetrable air. Such action could only contain the creature, not train it to carry a passenger. That required a touch the Keeper did not have.

Against Brant's advice Ronyn had refused to wield the lightning-whip. Instead, he had waited for calm moments and in those moments had thrown Basalt a pouch of diluted nectar. The dragon always paused, as if considering its options, before snatching up the treat. When it swallowed, Golden light shimmered under the scales of its throat, a patch of goodness, a remnant from the potion Hesperus had given. Ronyn had another pouch ready in his hand the instant the dragon looked up. If it snarled Ronyn placed the pouch behind his back and shook his head, if the creature remained passive Ronyn would point to the right or left, and if the dragon went there it got the pouch. Eventually Basalt came to associate the treat with obedience.

This was the first time Ronyn had stood before it without Hesperus first creating a barrier and without a treat in his hand. Ronyn recalled Brant's words from yesterday, You can't rely on treats forever. Ronyn pointed to the left and the dragon side stepped to the spot. He raised his arms and made as if pushing something heavy to the ground. The dragon sank to its knees and then slumped onto its side. He regarded Basalt a few moments longer and then signalled with a subtle flick of his fingers for Hesperus to contain her. Hesperus held his palms together, and rolling the air they contained, manipulated the air around Basalt. It rippled slightly and jiggled like frog-spawn before solidifying into a semi-obscure globe that resembled frosted-ice. The creature could not move even a fraction.

Ronyn turned to face Hesperus. "Are you certain she doesn't know she's been frozen?"

Hesperus nodded as he swatted a fly buzzing before his face. He clicked his fingers when it buzzed back, transforming it to a butterfly of vibrant blue. "The dragon has not been frozen, exactly. Moreover, the passage of time in its immediate vicinity has ceased to move forward. Therefore, there's no awareness of self. Such a thing relies on input from the senses.Without that input there's nothing. It could remain like that for days, weeks even, and when released it would think only a fraction of a second had passed."

Ronyn rolled his lip in contemplation as he offered an elbow of support to Brant.

"I didn't think it possible," Brant said, as they ambled towards Hesperus. "To train an unruly dragon without a lightning-whip. Progress was slow at first," he said, turning to Ronyn, "you have to admit that. And it's taken a lot of patience. But, I have to admit," he looked at Hesperus, "the result is worth it. As Ronyn predicted, the creature's now progressing faster than she would have. There's no doubt, Ronyn, your way is better."

"Yes, the whip should be banned."

"Really?" Hesperus stood and met them halfway, his hands clasped behind his back. "And how would you have restrained the creature without a keeper? All carrot and no stick? You appear to have forgotten those early days. I accept this is an exceptional case, and traditional methods might not have worked, but don't be so hasty as to dismiss them altogether. I will concede, however, that you have done well. The creature seems to like you, at the very least respect you."

Brant ruffled Ronyn's hair. "I always knew he'd make a fine trainer. Never had a doubt. Who would have thought it, eh? A novice, yet he employs his own theories."

* * *

Hesperus considered the black dragon. His jaw wavered slightly, almost trembled, as if restraining words on the brink of escape. He knew the jewel of his ring would be coloured purple. "When will it be ready to fly a passenger?" he asked, his eye still locked on Basalt.

Brant huffed and looked to the ceiling. "There's hundreds of dragons already trained for transport. Why risk flying this one? You still haven't told us your reasons."

"Nor will I." A black swirl swept across the purple jewel. "I have them, that's all you need to know. When will it carry a passenger?"

Brant shrugged. "Weeks, months, who knows, it's without precedent. Maybe never."

"This week." Hesperus continued to stare at the dragon, knowing his resolve might crack if he looked Brant in the eye. "It must be within the week."

"What? That's crazy talk."

Hesperus agreed, secretly. In a low commanding tone he reiterated his demand. "Within the week, Brant."

"Look." Brant raised his hands when Hesperus turned to face him. "It's one thing to tame a creature, and this one's anything but tame, but it's quite another to control it. Safely I mean. And to fly it, why that's..."

Hesperus firmed his jaw and nodded in reply to his own thoughts. "Before the week is out, Brant, I want to see you flying that dragon."

"Ronyn is the only one who can get near it. It could take months before I can even approach it, never mind fly the damn thing. I'd have more success milling grain."

"Within the week, Brant, or the deal is off – Davran dies."

Hesperus crossed the arena with unyielding determination. Outside, despite the clear blue sky, he exited under a heavy black cloud. His stomach knotted around a hole in his middle. Moisture brimmed his eye-lids, and he sniffed a drop from the end of his nose. "Silly old fool," he muttered. "Needs must."

On the outskirts of town, at the far side of a dusty square, Hesperus spotted a young girl crouched on the floor, sobbing. She looked up only when his shadow stole the sun's heat. In her arms she cradled a kitten. Hesperus crouched and reaching out his skeletal hand caressed its soft white head.

"Her leg's broken."

The girl stiffened with surprise. "No, it isn't?"

"I'm afraid it is. I saw her limping before you picked her up," he said, forcing a humourless smile to mask the lie.

"She fell from the tree, and, oh, it's all my fault. My mama told me not to... it, it's my..." The girl buried her face into the kitten, sobbing afresh now her fear had been confirmed.

"What's her name?"

"Pepper." The girl looked up at Hesperus, sucking plaintive sobs. "I have to look after her, because... I found her... and she doesn't have a... have a..."

"And what's your name?"

"Lucy."

So much work to do, yet here he sat comforting a little girl with a broken kitten.

She continued to speak, but Hesperus only half listened. Little things are important. But such things are never ending, continually falling like sands of time. All little things lead to big ones. How can I be certain the course I've chosen is the correct one. I can't, but I've already deliberated as long as I can. The time comes when you have to commit. That's the trouble with freedom. With freedom to choose comes responsibility. Paradoxically, he thought, freedom is constricting by its very nature.

The section of prophecy relevant to this situation was proving extremely difficult to unravel. Like a knot it would be easy to attack it with a knife and pull out individual sections, but then what's the use of a string in pieces, better to leave it in a knot. The messages are so ambiguous as to be practically useless. From the stars message, Hesperus knew the boundary was close to collapse. If it collapsed the dimensions of good and evil would merge. If that happened now, with evil outweighing good, evil will rule. Not only will it rule; it will get stronger.

Who will care about little girls and broken kittens then, Hesperus thought, his mind returning to little things. I will be powerless, a sapling standing against an avalanche of misery. Even a lion can't battle a million ants. The weakening of the boundary is already having an influence. Revolution is still rising in Hob's head; they are determined to have the Onktor's land.

For now they will not succeed. The shields I've placed will see to that. None can enter. Or rather, he rationalised, they can enter, but any person intent on harm who does so will gradually be drained of life – turn back or die, the words will ring in their ears, while the life force drains from them, drying them like flower petals in a hot wind. Desiccated revolutionaries. Hesperus huffed, inwardly. Their lives are in their own hands then, not mine. I've given warning, all they have to do is turn back and they'll be fine. Ultimately people have to choose; it has to be their own choice. But those choices have to be responsible ones which respect the choices of others. I am choosing for Davran, though. What if I'm wrong? What if my choices are wrong...?

"Are you alright mister?"

Hesperus turned to face Lucy and smiled benevolently. "Let me take a look at her."

He sat on the hard ground, took the kitten and placed it in his lap, gripping the skin behind its neck as it scrambled to get free. Curling his thumb around its throat, he stroked comfort into its chin.

Davran has to return. The prophecy dictates it. It has to be within the week; that is definite. Signs in the stars hinting at the fragility of the boundary show it can be left no longer. What influence this young woman, Davran, could have in the great scheme of things I can't determine. Nor can I know how she could stop evil from tipping the balance. Fuel to the fire? It makes no sense. Maybe her just getting here was all her part entailed. Maybe she could stay after all. Maybe her travelling through the boundary was like putting a hairline-crack in a reservoir wall. It might be weakened but still never burst. But then, perhaps sending her back is the equivalent of repairing the fault and making certain. No, that can't be it. The weakened boundary was what transported her in the first place. Or was it? Damn it, I don't have the answers. She is key in this somehow, and in more than an accidental way. She has to be. Maybe the boundary had to be weakened in order to be strengthened. Yes, like a broken bone, all the stronger for mending. Maybe? Should I tell her who she is, or will that disrupt the unravelling of prophecy?

Forcing his mind back to Lucy he cradled the kitten in the palm of his right hand. With his left he manipulated the kitten's leg. It purred and rubbed its head against his forearm as warmth flowed from his fingertips. The girl sniffed, gazing wide eyed at Hesperus, her cheeks all red and blotchy.

Fuel to the fire? He had a strong feeling it referred to Davran, not the dragon. Was she the fuel or the fire? Or neither? Maybe it did refer to the dragon. Fuel is at the heart of a fire. Fire is destructive. Fire can spread - like evil. But so can goodness. Fire isn't always destructive, it only has the potential to be. It needs to be contained – like evil in the opposite dimension. Davran is the fuel and she has to be kept in the fire. That must be it? Or does she feed the fire? She isn't dangerous, though – or doesn't intend to be, any more than a fire does, but she has to be contained.

Hesperus snapped out of his trance. Lucy was smiling at him, leaning forward, her elbows propped on her knees, her head leaning questioningly to the side. "You're funny," She giggled. "You keep doing googly-eyes."

He chuckled and poked his tongue out. When he sensed the kitten's splintered bone knitting together he smiled. It was only a temporary fix. Such was his influence in most things, like rolling a pebble from a mountain top and causing a landslide. The kitten's own body would do the rest. Once properly repaired the bone would be all the stronger. Like the boundary.

"Oh,'" he said. "Pepper's leg's not broken after all. She seems to be fine." He handed the kitten over.

The girl beamed. "Really?"

"Truly. It's badly bruised mind. You'll have to be careful with her for a few weeks. Carry her around, look after her and give her a soft bed where she'll feel safe."

"She has a little cradle at the end of my bed. She's safe there."

Hesperus curled his lower lip and nodded. His eyes sparkled with moisture. "That sounds perfect."

Davran has to go back. Brant will hate me. Ronyn will despise me.

Davran was a pebble and he was a man that shoved pebbles into motion. Whether a landslide would result remained to be seen. If only there was more time.

"Shall we go and get her some milk, Lucy? Maybe some cream? A treat, being as she's had such a scare. And because you were so brave and protective you can have a cookie."

"Could I have some milk too?" The girl stood, the kitten cradled in her arms and took Hesperus by the hand as if it were the most natural thing to do. "I like milk."

"Me too." Hesperus gave her hand a comforting squeeze as they began a slow walk towards the eatery. "Do you know, it's very difficult having creatures to care for? Loving can be very painful."
Twenty Two

The tree canopy undulated like a green ocean, swaying branches marking the route of a fast moving invisible force. Ronyn stood beside Hesperus on a wide mountain ledge overlooking the forest. The two of them stepped back, pressing against the cliff face as the movement headed toward them. Slowing as it neared, the black dragon flickered into view and landed on the edge.

Brant slid from the creatures' neck, his face one huge grin. As he strode toward his son and the keeper, Basalt snapped in his direction. Ronyn jumped between them, a steel-hard glare in his eye, and Basalt halted his attack.

"You behave." Ronyn tickled under Basalt's chin and stroked the back of his fingers towards the soft golden flesh of her throat, before placing a pouch of watered-nectar on her outstretched tongue.

"Well?" said Hesperus, turning to face Brant.

"Amazing. Wow! Exactly as Ronyn described. Such a strange experience. You can see the trees and the mountains, but they're faint, shimmering like a reflection on a pond, like they're there, but not. And the speed. It's incredible. But you can only see it, you can't feel it. What I found most peculiar, though, was a swirling mass of colour, floating, like clouds of light. And millions of stars, stars rushing past. And in the distance forks of lightning. Incredible. Amazing. I can see now why it's important this creature kept its true nature. The speed. It's unbelievable. A person could travel the width and breadth of the land in minutes instead of hours. Did I disappear from view, like Ronyn did?"

Hesperus nodded, his smile wavering, words failing him momentarily as he caught sight of the black-purple wash on his jewelled ring. He placed his hand behind his back.

"Why's that then? Why do we disappear? Do you know?"

Hesperus cleared his throat. "What you're seeing. What you're entering, when you fly this dragon at speed, is the edge of the boundary. The velocity you witness isn't your own motion as such but the motion of the planet while you virtually stand still. You're actually on the precipice of tipping over into another dimension."

"Right," said Brant pondering, as he turned and watched Ronyn petting the creature. "I wasn't in as much control of her as Ronyn though. She pretty much did as she pleased."

"Nonetheless you did fly her, and you did skirt the boundary."

"Yes, but had Ronyn not been present when I dismounted she would have killed me."

"I noticed. That's a minor problem. It can be overcome." Hesperus dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand.

Brant scowled and rubbed the nearly healed scar on his chin. "When are you going to tell me why this creature's so important, and why I have to be the one to fly it? Ronyn can handle it much better than me."

"That is true." Hesperus looked across at Ronyn. He seemed to be contemplating something. As if suddenly aware that Brant was intently watching him, he snatched his gaze away. "I couldn't put Ronyn in danger, Brant. That would be too much."

"Danger! What danger?" Brant lowered his voice so Ronyn could not hear. "Is this something to do with the Hob's Head trouble? You needing to move around quickly? Sort things out? It is, isn't it? You're right. I wouldn't want Ronyn getting involved in that. Felicia would make my life hell. If you're with me, though, I suppose you can restrain the creature from attacking."

"I won't be with you Brant." Hesperus paused as he struggled to find the correct words. He eased Brant further away from Ronyn. Now was the time for disclosure. "The Hob's Head trouble is connected, sort of. The reason this dragon's true nature had to be preserved is because without it, it wouldn't be able to go back across the boundary."

Brant had a defensive look, as if he were already forming rebuffs. Hesperus paused a moment before he continued.

"I need you to fly the dragon through the boundary. I need you to take Davran back to her world."

"What?" Brant threw his arms into the air and turned away from Hesperus. He gazed out over the forest before eventually turning back to throw a steel hard gaze at the Keeper. "I get it now. She couldn't go back without the dragon could she?"

"I may have found a way in time, but no."

Brant glared at Hesperus. "So, you tricked me. I agreed to train the dragon to save her from danger and in doing so actually kept the danger alive."

Hesperus hung his head momentarily, stiffened his resolve and looking up met Brant's glare with the conviction of his office. "I had no choice," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

"We had a deal. I train the black dragon and you don't make Davran return."

"That was not the deal. If you recall, I agreed to let Davran remain with you. Where you go she goes, I said. I want you to go through the boundary and for her to go with you."

Brant's jaw flexed. He glanced at Ronyn stroking the soft flesh of the dragon's throat. Hesperus followed his gaze and realised at once what he was thinking. A dragon had to have real trust to allow that: the throat was its only weak spot. A dagger thrust into its throat would kill it. Ronyn could do that. The creature trusted him.

"And if I refuse?" Brant switched his gaze back to Hesperus.

A cold blast shivered the trees as the dropping sun made way for night fall. A golden glow lit the rock behind Hesperus. Brant's aura shimmered with fear.

"I've manipulated your actions so far. From now on the choice will be yours. Know this, though, you will be choosing for everyone. I refer to every family, not just your own. All people, everything in fact. Life is hanging by a thread. The boundary is on the verge of collapse."

"You're throwing me a heavy burden old man."

"Welcome to my shoes. Not very comfortable are they?"

"And you're certain this'll put things right?"

"There are no certainties."

"So it might be for nothing?"

Hesperus stared in silence, before he nodded in resignation.

Ronyn looked across, his eyes drawn to his father's accusing glare. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Brant kept his eyes locked on Hesperus. "Nothing for you to worry about son." He ran a thumb along his belt and stopped at the dagger's handle. "Take the dragon back to the compound."

Ronyn brushed his fringe aside as he switched glances to each man's face. "Doesn't look like nothing. What's...?"

"I said... nothing for you to worry about. Just take the dragon back to the compound."

"I want your father to fly the dragon through the boundary and take Davran with him."

"What? No. You can't."

Ronyn strode across the ledge. The two men kept their gazes locked.

"If I hadn't trained Basalt you wouldn't be able to make him do this."

"It's not your fault, son. I do have a choice, apparently. I have to choose between the likely death of myself and Davran, or the death of everyone and everything. But, it seems, there are no guarantees."

"What? I don't understand."

The sun cast a last glimmer, before leaving the ledge in darkness. Hesperus placed a hand on Ronyn's shoulder. Ronyn turned sharply to his left, flinching at the unwanted touch.

"Do you know what the boundary is?" Hesperus questioned.

"It's something that separates our world from another. The world that Davran came from."

"Sort of. That world is not exactly another world; it's the same world. The two exist in the same place. One resides in the space left by the other."

Ronyn frowned. "What? How?"

Hesperus scratched his temple then tapped his pursed lips with a raised forefinger. "There are certain gases of very small quantity that float in the atmosphere, you comprehend that? Yes? Alright then. Those gas molecules never come into contact with each other. The particles are spread too wide apart. They exist, then, in gaps. Solid objects work in the same way, but the gaps are smaller. The gaps still exist even though they are microscopic. It's the same with everything, in this rock, in those trees. That's where the other world is, in those gaps. And our world is in the gaps of that world. Now, let's go back to the gas. If they were to be forced together, made to occupy the same place, an explosive mixture would be created. The two cannot be allowed to mix and it's the same with our two worlds. Good and bad simply can't live in harmony."

"You're saying that our two worlds are like the gas. That they're going to come together and explode."

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"But you can't prove any of this." said Brant.

"No. But I believe in the signs given by the stars. The light coming through the atmosphere gives an indication of material change."

"Hang on," Ronyn interrupted, pushing himself between the two men, squaring up to Hesperus. "Davran is from that world and she isn't evil. She's not created any disharmony."

"That is true, although she does have a seed of darkness. Nonetheless, I've come to realise that my conception of this other world must have been distorted. There is also more badness in this world than I had previously realised. However, the badness we have at present is nothing to what we'll have should the boundary fail."

Brant eased Ronyn to the side. "Suppose I accept this is going to happen. Suppose I agree to take Davran across the boundary. What if it doesn't make any difference? It might happen that even if we don't go, the boundary still might not fall. We would have gone for nothing, what then?"

"Regrettably two lives will have been risked for nothing. But prophecy indicates that it must be done. These prophecies predicted a collapse of the boundary which coincided with Davran's arrival. Therefore, I have no reason to doubt them. Davran returns or we see the end of our world as we know it. The choice is yours Brant. As I said, I'm not going to force you. I'm merely setting pebbles in a position where they can be rolled more easily."

"Pebbles?" Brant inhaled a long breath and released it with a sigh. "Oh, I see, Davran and I are the pebbles. How can I choose? In choosing I'm also choosing for Davran."

"No, she can choose for herself." Hesperus turned and ambled toward the rocky slope which descended through the tree canopy now clothed black. "I'll visit you first light for an answer."

Twenty Three

Davran confirmed the possibility, telling them that for some time people in her world had talked about things changing. One thing to which she had paid little regard at the time was glimmers of light in a once red-black sky. Glimmers which she now knew to be the blue of this world's sky flickering into view. Small plants had begun to sprout among arid rocks too. Maybe the opposite thing was happening in this world, but being as it is so lush and verdant, the death of a small plant won't be noticed. Ronyn mentioned a stretch of dead forest he'd noticed while flying Basalt, at the far side of the mountain.

Kale rose from the table in silence and slouched into the living room. All eyes watched him leave, welcoming the distraction. A moment later splintering wood ripped through the silence. Brant made for the living room and found Kale breaking his arrows in half, throwing them into the fire. The glowing coals licked greedily at each fresh offering.

"What're you doing?" Brant yelled as Kale, having destroyed all the arrows, reached for the bow.

Kale's eyes watered in a face red with fury. "The regional final's next week. You said you'd come."

Placing the bow across his raised knee, Kale pushed each end. His arms trembled, the pliable wood resisting. When he let go, it sprang across the room. As Kale ran to retrieve it Brant pulled him back and embraced him.

"I would have gone son. And I would have been proud to watch you. I'll be back though. There'll be other competitions."

The flame fuelled by the broken arrows died down and cast the room in darkness. Ronyn walked in and threw on fresh timber. Yellow flames danced, spitting around the log and cast a shadow of father and son embracing in the golden glow.

"You enter that contest. You win for me. You win for yourself. You win for the pride of winning – do you hear? When I come back I want to see a trophy on that mantle."

Kale sniffed, rubbed his eyes and nodded. He picked up his bow and leaned it against the wall. "I'll be needing some more arrows then."

The pendulum of the clock at the foot of the stairs swung to the beat of a pounding tick, counting long silent moments. A glimmer of light stole through a crack in the curtain. Davran had come to welcome the daily return of the sun, relieved each and every morning to see the blackness of night chased away.

Today's sunrise did not have the same appeal.

The choice had been made.

A rap sounded on the door. Everyone remained where they were, reluctant to answer. Eventually Brant rose from his chair and opened it. Hesperus stood with his head down, his hands loose by his side. In one hand he held a hessian sack. Khalil and Pantal nodded to Brant with solemn expressions. Brant turned without speaking, and, leaving the door ajar, went back to the table.

As if entering a home of recent bereavement, Hesperus respected the silence. He pulled out a chair and sat. He looked deflated, his face drawn and pallid, as if for weeks he had been ill and had not eaten.

Khalil and Pantal went into the living room, and settled on the rug before the fire they rolled out the parchment and began discussing small points in the prophecy.

"When did you last eat?" Felicia asked, glancing at the sack in the Keeper's hand.

After a brief pause, noticing that no one else had spoken, surprised that he was the one being asked such a question, Hesperus looked up at Felicia.

"When did you last eat, old man?"

Hesperus gestured with his hands and muttered: "not for some days."

Felicia shook her head.

"You'll join us for breakfast then," she commanded.

"I've no stomach for food."

"Nonsense. If Brant and Davran can eat, so can you." Felicia put a plate before him and began dishing out a cooked breakfast. "You'll need to keep your strength up and get working on a plan to bring my husband and daughter back from that dreadful place."

"I don't deserve this." Hesperus shoved the plate away. "Especially when I tell you they won't be coming back."

Kale glared at the Keeper.

Hesperus turned to face Brant who was slurping tea from a mug. "You seem to be taking this well."

"I've come to terms with it. Not every day a man gets to save an entire world." He swallowed the last of the tea and placed his mug on the table. "What's in the sack?"

Hesperus drew the sack onto his lap. Peeling it back he revealed a leather harness which was far from ordinary. Wires and springs ran the length of leather straps. At one end was some kind of lever. At its opposite end was a ring of silver and attached to that a gleaming metal spike. Brant had seen something like it before. He ran his thumb along the scar on his chin as he contemplated where. He gave a slight nod as he realised: a diagram in his great-great-grandfather's notes. In those times not all people respected tame dragons. Those that had been tamed were vulnerable to attack. The harness covered its throat and protected it from attack.

Ronyn leaned over the table. "What is it?"

"It's for Basalt," said Brant, explaining the vulnerability of tame dragons.

Ronyn nodded his approval. Basalt was not exactly tame, but in his own world he would be like a lamb in a cave of wolves. "What's the spring and lever for?"

Brant had been wondering the same thing. He allowed his eyes to follow the wires which ran through guiding loops. The loops determined which was the outer side of the strap and indicated which way it fastened. Brant knew, as he realised, that Ronyn would also soon understand what the lever was for. The spike on this harness was inverted. It was not for Basalt's protection. It was for his destruction.

"No! No way." Ronyn leapt from his seat with such force the chair scraped along the floor and toppled with a clatter. He stretched across the table, grasped the harness and ran into the living room. Pantal and Khalil shuffled away from Ronyn's feet. The fire burned with eager flames and cast dancing shadows as Brant followed. Ronyn stood before it dangling the harness.

"You're not putting this on her. Basalt doesn't deserve to die."

"Does your father?" asked Hesperus. "That's for his protection. Basalt's only tame in your presence, you know that. Without you he'll attack the instant they dismount. The other world may not be much of a life, but it is a life nonetheless. Besides which, to ride a black dragon is suicidal. To do so willingly is to commit suicide. Ask Davran what happens in her world to those who knowingly commit an act that's tantamount to suicide."

Davran pushed through the doorway, in a mad panic. "Ronyn, people in my world that commit suicide never fully die. They exist in a living death, eating each other and painfully re-growing. They feel pain of hunger and the pain of their wounds in the knowledge that it will never end. Some are told this from birth, I learned of it only months ago. It's in part how Saurian controls us. We obey his rule in the knowledge that to do anything else is like committing suicide."

"Don't do it Ronyn," Kale pleaded. "I don't want dad to die."

"There must be another way. We could take more time," Ronyn offered, "Tame Basalt some more."

Hesperus shook his head. "There is no more time Ronyn. The time is now."

Hesperus walked to the outer door and pushed it open. "Look," he said pointing to the sky.

Above the mountain, in the clouds, barely visible, loomed a shimmering black tower that resembled a clenched fist. The image faded in and out of view, so pale it could have been a trick of the light.

When Davran saw it her knees buckled. Brant caught her before she fell. "That's Saurian's palace." She uttered.

"The boundary is failing now, Ronyn. Your father flies this morning – with or without the harness. I have no time to make another."

"Give it back, Ronyn. It's the only chance dad's got. I don't want him to die." Kale's lip trembled with the strain of holding back tears.

* * *

Ronyn looked at his younger brother. Ordinarily he would have ridiculed him. Suddenly he felt so much older than Kale. His brother was still a child, a child on the verge of discovering his own talents, of realising his own desires, whereas he was now a man. His brother still needed a father to approve of his successes and commiserate with his failures. A boy should have a father and who was he who had already grown in the presence of one to remove Kale's only chance of doing the same.

"I'll go," said Ronyn, his voice taught with conviction.

"Go where?" Brant grunted.

"I'll fly Basalt over the boundary instead of you."

Brant shook his head. "No you won't. You'll do as you're told. Hand that harness over now."

"No. Kale needs you and mum needs you."

"I'll decide what I need for myself, young man. Now, give that to your father."

Ronyn looked at Felicia in the doorway, her face fuming, tears forming in her eyes. Beside Felicia stood Davran wearing the silk dress, the simplicity of the cut and the sheer material accentuating her curves. If he was now a man, she was definitely now a woman. Her eyes glinted as she gazed back at him. He looked into those eyes and saw the stars. Ronyn knew he wanted to be with Davran. If it meant only one more day with her, even with death snapping at his heels, he wanted it. That his father would not die as a result was merely a bonus.

"I can control Basalt. He doesn't have to die. Maybe I can return Davran to her world and fly straight back."

* * *

Hesperus saw the sense in Ronyn's proposition. It was possible. Something in Ronyn's look though gave a lie to his words. For the Keeper that was not the important issue. There was more chance of success if Ronyn were to handle the task, more chance that they would successfully cross the boundary and land with control in a place of relative safety. Hesperus remained quiet. The deal had been with Brant. It was not his position to interfere in family matters. He slipped into the kitchen and began scribbling on a scrap of paper. Talking quietly to himself he screwed it up and began scribbling afresh while muttering. "Too long winded. Too didactic. Come on, think. Too direct. Too ambiguous."

* * *

"Ronyn do as you're told." Brant edged forward. "It's too much of a risk. You might not make it back. I've lived much of my life and I want you to live yours." He took another few paces, closing the gap.

Ronyn thrust the harness toward the fire. As flame tasted leather he had a sudden realisation. His father would possibly go anyway, even without the harness. Kale had already said as much. This was solving nothing. He could not destroy it. If he did it would be as if he himself had killed his father. Without it Davran was also likely to be killed. Kale suddenly launched himself across the room and slammed his head into Ronyn's gut. Ronyn fell back, gasping. The harness headed for the fire, slowing as it reached the apex of its trajectory. Brant snatched it mid-air and hobbled into the kitchen to join Hesperus. Sounds of writing, followed by sighs and the screwing up of paper came from the room.

"What're you writing, old man?"

Hesperus, looking startled, folded the paper and slipped it into a pocket. He turned and waved a dismissive hand. "Merely a list to help a failing memory. Now, sit, we have things to discuss," he said, gathering up the failed attempts, and stuffing them into another pocket.

* * *

Davran sat next to Ronyn on the floor beside the fire, as all the others drifted into the kitchen. She planted a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you," she said, her large pupils reflecting the fire as if the flame was actually inside her.

"For what?"

"For letting me know what it feels like to love and be loved as an adult."

Ronyn smiled a straight-lipped smile. "I wish you didn't have to go. I wish I could go with you. I would have protected you."

"You couldn't have." Her eyes brimmed with tears.

One broke free. Ronyn stroked it away with his thumb. "I would have."

"You couldn't. You wouldn't get the chance. You don't know what it's like. Young men that are big and strong are taken by the palace guard. I don't want you to come back with me. I want you to stay here, safe, where I can think about you. You and rainbows and dancing with stars."

"I could hide, disguise myself like you did."

"You'd stand out like an oak in a wheat field. Speaking of which I'd better get changed."

Ronyn followed her into the hall and watched her float up the stairs. He then dragged himself into the kitchen. Felicia was packing food into bags. Brant was attempting to stress his oldest clothes in a way in which Davran had told him he would look the part.

"Felicia," Brant grumbled, "The cloth you make our clothes from is so strong it'll hardly fray."

"Time was that that was a good thing," she answered with a humourless chuckle.

Hesperus brushed by Ronyn's side and forced his fingers against his palm. He squeezed Ronyn's hand around the slip of paper and moved away.

"There's a clean spot, behind the ear," said Hesperus to Kale who was stood on a chair rubbing dirt into his father's neck.

Ronyn back-stepped into the hallway, unfolded the slip of paper and read the hastily scrawled message:

If you go, she must remain pure.
Twenty Four

Standing on the ledge, Davran looked out over the tree canopy. A cold breeze cut through the mountains carrying a light rain, and above the canopy arched a bright rainbow.

Davran sighed: "one day you'll reach for rainbows."

"What was that my dear?" asked Hesperus.

Pulling strands of hair from her wet face, tucking them in her cap, Davran turned to look at Hesperus. "I promised myself I would take back a rainbow to show my father." She looked into his eyes a moment before turning back to the rainbow. "I now know that's impossible."

"Those words have a familiarity," Hesperus said, pondering a moment. "I recall reading them – maybe a book. The rainbow was at one time viewed as a sign of hope. How could it be else, to create a rainbow – a true rainbow – one needs the essential elements for life: sunlight and water."

Davran gazed at the sky. She was dressed in Kale's oldest clothes, her face grimy and the hair which she had refused to cut tucked into a cap. It had proved impossible to completely hide her curves and Felicia had resorted to padding instead. She was going back. She had little choice. But she had no intention of inviting death for the ride. Her people believed there was a better world, a better existence. There was, but it could not be reached on foot. They were reaching for rainbows in a place where there was no light and very little rain.

Hesperus held his hands before him and raised them into the air. Raindrops settled on his palms. He then cupped his hands together and rolled them as if forming a ball of dough, light glimmering through the gaps in his fingers.

"Felicia," he whispered. "Do you have a chain? I have a gift for Davran."

"She already has a chain," Felicia hushed back. "One which I gave her."

Could you get it for me."

Davran watched Brant lavishing attention on Kale, showing elation as his young son managed to place an arrow in the trunk of a distant tree. In quick succession he then placed four more arrows close to it.

"Very good Kale." Brant placed an arm over his son's shoulder. "But weren't you aiming for that other tree?"

"It's not hitting the target which is important," Kale told him, enthusiastically repeating his instructor's words, "but remaining consistent in your aim. You have to find your own mark and repeat it until it becomes second nature. I tuck my thumb under the lobe of my ear. When the arrows hit close to each other you know you are doing it consistently. Only then should you adjust toward the target."

Brant rolled his lower lip. "Be consistent in your aim? Good advice Kale, very good."

Felicia persuaded Davran to part with the chain a moment, and placed it in Hesperus's cupped hands. He continued to roll his palms together, eventually opening them to reveal a small ball that looked like delicate glass swinging from the chain. Davran pinched the chain with her fingertips and gazed upon a sphere which rippled on the inside as if liquid. It emitted a soft light, the core of which undulated with the colours of a rainbow.

"Nothing is impossible," said Hesperus. "I hope it will suffice. And remember, the rainbow is a symbol of hope."

Davran thanked him, slipping it over her head and tucking it out of sight. It was time for the goodbye she had dreaded. She sloped over to the far side of the ledge where Ronyn was placing the harness around Basalt's neck. He glanced over his shoulder as Davran approached, but fixed his gaze beyond her. Davran swivelled and followed his line of sight. Hesperus was discussing archery with Kale, manipulating the feathers on his arrows. Ronyn's mother and father were lost in an embrace.

When Davran turned back she looked at Pantal and Khalil, sitting upon Basalt's back, amid the bags which had been lashed with rope. They were focused on another portion of ambiguity within the prophecy. Khalil had decided to fly through the boundary with Brant and Davran, arguing that the prophecy had more ambiguity to unravel, that it might make a difference. If he wanted to sacrifice himself in the hope of getting them back, that was his choice.

She looked at Ronyn in time to see him snip the harness wire, remove the spring and spike and toss them over the ledge.

"What're you doing?" she said in a low hush, tapping him with the back of her hand, scowling.

"It won't be needed. I'm going with you."

"No, you're not."

"I am. Now shut up and get on."

"No."

Ronyn pursed his lips, exhaling through flared nostrils. "This device won't work now."

"So?"

"So, you've got no choice. Basalt will kill you both when you dismount."

Davran blanched at the prospect, not of death itself, but the fact that such a death would be suicidal.

"Now, climb on."

Davran glared at him. "On one condition. You fly straight back home."

Ronyn nodded. "Yes, of course. I've every intention of coming back."

"Pantal," Ronyn said, careful to not let the others hear, "I'm going to give Basalt the nectar. It's almost time."

"Mmm! Sorry, what?"

"Unless you wish to go with Khalil, I suggest you get off?"

"Me! No. No, thank you. Back to the star-tower for me. Record keeping is excitement enough."

Khalil hugged his cousin and said his last goodbyes as Ronyn lifted the lid from the barrel of pure nectar. Basalt recognised the smell, an intoxicating version of the watered-down aroma she had become accustomed to. Ronyn helped Pantal to the ground. Cupping his hands for Davran's foot, he hitched her aloft. Davran glanced at Hesperus and saw that he had noticed the activity. He did not look like stopping them though, for when he saw Pantal approaching, he beckoned Pantal to slow his pace.

Basalt was gulping the liquid, her head halfway down the barrel. She would need it all. As fast as she was, without the added inertia of stormy weather she would never have enough speed to cross the boundary. There was always the possibility of becoming trapped between the two worlds: in the void: the place where the truly dead resided.

Kale struck an arrow into the shaft of the previous one.

"Well done son." Brant patted him on the back. "Ronyn," he called. "Look at this."

Brant turned as he spoke. Davran was already astride Basalt and Ronyn was swinging his leg over the dragon's neck. Pantal was on the ground approaching with an air of uncertainty. The dragon's head was buried in the barrel of nectar. Brant headed toward Basalt, his walk accelerating into a sprint as Ronyn looked up and began tugging on Basalt's reigns.

"Ronyn, get down! Now. Ro-nyn!"

Basalt skittered around the ledge, rearing up as Ronyn struggled to draw him away from the barrel. Basalt snapped in Brant's direction. He dived to the ground, barely escaping the jaws. Ronyn dug his left heel into Basalt's flank and shouted "Wah-tilp," which steered the dragon away from his father. He dug in both heels, shouted "Sh-hillah," and in a down-blast of air cast the ledge into shadow. It was a struggle to hold her, but Ronyn forced Basalt to hover.

"This way is better," Ronyn shouted. "I need to be with Davran. It should be me, Dad, not you."

Lead-grey clouds rolled across the sky, and what little sunlight pierced through looked all the brighter in comparison.

Brant glanced at Felicia then turned back to Ronyn. "There's so much you don't know," he shouted.

"What I don't know I'll learn."

"Be consistent in your aim," Brant said.

"I love you Dad, Mum, Kale."

Basalt suddenly shot forward. The trees parted in her wake. Those trees which were supple and green swayed as if waving goodbye. Grey bare-bone branches snapped with wrenching cries and fell to the ground. With a roar of burning oxygen, like a comet in reverse, the black mass accelerated, soaring high into to the air. The force was such that on this occasion the gully in the canopy did not close. It remained splayed, permanently splintered. A sudden clap of thunder reported through the mountains. Black cloud billowed, rolling in, erasing the rainbows. Lightning forked and a torrent of heavy rain began to fall. They were gone.

Hesperus gave Brant a sidelong glance. "Now we have to prepare," he said.

"For what?"

"For the collapse of the boundary; it was always going to fall Brant. The stars never lie."

Follow the story in the second book of the "Fuel to the Fire" series

Ruler's Desire
