Slowly, my consciousness returns and I realize the eye is, of course, attached to a massive head taller than I am, triangular with a squarish chin area. Armored scales thicker than any plate cover the creature, shining softly in the red light. I also realize that this head is attached to a body so massive and so long I could line eight Pookies to reach the tail and still have room for another Pookie. The retracted wings, when expanded, could blot the sun from half of Marquette. The dragon rests supine in a cavern of epic proportion, its existence an affront to every law of structural integrity. Impressively, space acts in an erratic manner, sometimes blurring the edges of the cavern until I am not sure if it is there, or I am merely looking at the reflection of some distant land. There is no source for the light, of course. The cave’s host has no need for such mundane contraptions.
The most striking features are the absolute calm spread by its presence. Merely looking at the dragon from the ground gave me vertigo, as if my senses could not quite grasp him in its entirety despite my experience with the Watcher. Nevertheless, I can gaze upon its tower shield-sized scales and feel nothing except a mild dread, even though being in close proximity should blind me. The Thirst has quieted as well, my instincts silent. Why did I ever think I could hunt this creature? I am fifty thousand years too early.
As I recover from the shock, I realize that I am not alone. Two others stand by my sides. Behind us, a long tunnel snakes back outside. I do not remember treading it.
I expected Sinead, of course, considering his involvement in the hunt’s result. Khadras is a surprise, however. I assumed the crystal part of his body and mind would not tolerate such meddling, yet here he is, a mighty scowl on his cold traits.
We stay here for a moment, quiet as mice while our host inspects us. When he finally speaks, his Likaean is the clearest, most articulated I’ve ever heard. It bears the clarity of a sovereign but none of the barely veiled power. A mellow voice like that of a perfect gentleman emerges from the air. It evokes a quiet spot in a private library, coffee, and a pleasant time. He is so unthreatening that it represents a threat itself. His control is simply baffling.
“Well, here we are again. At least someone reached me this time.”
He snorts and the searing air pushes my hair back, forcing me to blink. A human would have been sent careening into the nearest wall.
“Little Carnaciel tells me I should not judge the current generation to the measure of the best but, honestly…”
I feel terribly belittled.
“Very well, I am sleepy. Let us get this ‘slaying’ done. You may challenge me and the victor will earn a prize. You may pick whichever game you believe you have a chance with, or violence I suppose. That would make this meeting mercifully short. There. Who goes first?”
“I challenge you, Great One,” Sinead announces, taking a resolute step forward.
The dragon sniffs him, the prince’s golden hair fluttering forward from the short intake.
“Are you related to Arathon?”
“My grandfather, the founder of the Court of Summer.”
“Hmph. You are… not his equal. Though I suppose you are still quite young. Speak your challenge then.”
“I challenge you to a dance.”
The dragon stays quiet for a brief moment, then Sinead is suddenly standing in the middle of a circle lit by bobbing golden lights far in front of us. The cave has spontaneously grown by fifty yards.
“You may begin.”
The prince closes his eyes and breathes deep. He seems to pull on himself, then his back arches out, his arms spread. He launches himself, and the dance begins.
A golden robin flies between branches, barely dodging raptor claws. An eagle screeches out of sight. The robin weaves a complex path that drives him, deeper and deeper, until the sky darkens and the branches turn to gnarly fingers grasping for him. It is silent now, but still the robin flies. It has been fleeing for so long against such a relentless foe that to stop would be madness. The eagle will never stop.
The robin is lost. He lands on a mossy root.
It is a dark, merciless world, and so the robin plunges in the dust. Dark patches cover his radiant plumage. He is tainted now, dull, but only in appearance. The summer sun has never ceased to burn within his breast.
The robin evolves in this world without light, without fire. He outwits predators and gathers allies, including those who could have harmed him. He finds others broken and lost, and he puts him back together until the dark world teems with the fires of emotion, hidden, damaged, but never extinguished. The tarnished gather into a great flock and reveal their true colors. The dark world shimmers with their revealed lights, dizzying in their beauty. The monsters try to extinguish the light but they cannot touch the robin as it flies in a rainbow of color, opening the thick canopy above. In a breathtaking apotheosis, the robin sheds its dark feathers and ascends to be a phoenix. He and the others escape through the opening into an azure sky.
Sinead reaches the apex of his ‘Jeté’ and lands with a bow.
I take a deep breath, amazed by his performance. I knew he had been practicing with Amaryll and other trainers while Cadiz used my chest for a pincushion but I had no idea he could be so inspiring! I want to draw him, so handsome and so free. What a performance! I almost want to grab him back with me so I can open a ballet. Even now, the remnants of emotion make the world blur with riotous colors. Amazing.
Well, I do believe he was amazing, but the dragon does not seem impressed. The old one sighs. The circle disappears. We are back at the entrance of the cave.
The dragon stretches and stands. It now dwarfs even the largest buildings I have ever seen in New York and Boston by far. His wings spread and the flap, once.
I am still standing on a horizontal piece of rock. I have to convince myself of that, because the cave pulled open like an opera curtain to reveal a night sky filled with foreign stars, pink nebulas, and two large moons like antediluvian eyes. The dragon flies through the cold air with increasingly greater speed. His wings ignite.
The dragon dances through the air and his motions ignore inertia, gravity, and anything that could possibly constrain the purity of his message. Scales, wings, and claws merge into a mirage of movement. Suddenly, I am no longer watching the dance so much as having an epiphany. A tide of… I am not quite sure what to call it, the closest concept would be ideas or revelations, touch my essence, sharing deep truth about the nature of the soul and the worlds and the relationships therein. I understand that earth will be bound to other spheres, first briefly then for extended periods of time over the eons. I understand that the Watcher sees the world around and through us, and what is unknown to us stays unknown to it, or the fabric of reality might be damaged. I understand that space and time are one. I understand that time itself is a river, no, it is a circle revolving, no, a spiral, no, I am but an ant perceiving an apple slice by slice because I cannot experience it in its entirety. I… I…
I am crying.
The dance has stopped. The dragon lies before us, and I have fallen to my knees. It was… life-changing. I must focus, try to remember nuggets of the truth revealed to me, but the concepts seep through the sieve of my limited mind. I lack so much background to bind this new knowledge to. I am lost. Eventually, I am left with strands of the tapestries I clutch between jealous fingers, longing for the moment I have lost and will never live again. I have witnessed a gift beyond anything and I am too stupid and limited to appreciate more than a fraction of it. Disgrace.
Also, we have lost. Incidentally.
The three of us shuffle awkwardly, quite aware that Sinead’s performance does not hold a candle to what we were just offered. Normally, the dragon will recognize great attempts and grant the petitioner a symbolic victory but it appears it will not be the case this time.
There are rumors he sometimes kills those who reach him.
For the first time since Revas fell, doubts assail me. Our lives depend on the whims of one we cannot possibly influence.
“Your next attempt, please,” the dragon grumbles.
“I challenge you, Great One, to do what I do,” Khadras says softly.
He looks a bit lost, yet resolute.
“Hmph, I know of your fate, child. A mother has no right to sell the soul of her children. Go ahead then.”
Khadras takes out a dagger and resolutely stabs himself in the eye, the crystal one. He grits his teeth in pain, even though the sharp tip fails to penetrate.
Another moment passes, then an unseen force wrenches the dagger from his grip. The enchanted weapon plunges in the dragon eyes with a dreadful squelch, right in the middle of the pupil.
Power dense enough to make me reel pushes the dagger out, disintegrating it, enchantment and all. The wound is unmade before it can shed a droplet of blood. Of the weapon, only dust remains.
Khadras gulps.
“Will then,” the prince says.
Both Sinead and I turn in horror, but too late. I wince in pain and force the barrier around my mind palace to thicken. The world loses a little bit of color while I take a step back, hurt by the onslaught coming from the prince. He is not even targeting me. His power surprises me, and I assume the moment grants him strength.
It is entirely pointless. His might washes over an invisible wall yards away from the dragon’s body like a wave upon a rock.
When I was twelve, I challenged my uncle to arm wrestling. He allowed me to struggle for two minutes and even use both hands, then my entire body to try and defeat him. After allowing me to expend myself, he casually put his arm down. I believe this memory to be the only valid comparison to what happens next, the main difference being that Khadras is sent screaming to the ground, a fist over his bleeding quartz orb. Sinead and I approach the fallen to render assistance, but we are pushed away.
“Do not interfere,” the dragon states, and we pull back.
We will not interfere. It must simply be so.
I shake my head to push back the dragon’s control but it is already gone, having fulfilled its purpose. At least, Khadras will survive. I am reasonably sure of it.
The dragon sighs, a miniature storm we must withstand once more. His gaze turns to me.
The world fades away until there is just me and the eye.
“And what might you be? A new sphere? Hmmm, not quite yet. Interesting soul. Well, do you wish to try your luck?” he asks.
I feel an undercurrent of threat mixed with boredom. I am entirely certain that he will kill us if we fail to convince him we were serious enough.
By the Watcher, this is complicated.
“We can choose the contest, and try several disciplines, is it not so?” I ask, unsure.
“Yes. I will lose patience after the first few hundreds, however, so pick wisely.”
“Then I choose… a drinking contest!”
The two princes watch in horror, especially Khadras who barely recovered from his mishap. I failed to understand how a giant lizard with no facial expression to speak of can convey how unimpressed he is, but the spheres are a strange place anyway.
“And I assume I need to provide the drink seeing as you have not a single container on your person, child. Very well, here you go.”
A volcanic bottle appears out of nowhere on a pedestal that did not exist a moment before. Its cork pops open and pours content in a tiny sifter. A waft of powerful alcohol almost makes me flinch.
We vampires with the Hasting essence can consume liquids without ill effect, so I should be entirely fine.
I hope.
I approach the glass, now filled with fuming, crimson liquid. My eyes water which should not be happening. I grip it with determination and bring its cusp to my lips. The very scent scalds my nostrils. I feel as if someone had scrubbed my lungs with hundred proof alcohol inexplicably holding a touch of flower. By the Watcher.
I take a sip.
I think, sometimes, that the world throws multiple hints in my direction to inform me an idea of mine is particularly stupid. Unfortunately, it only serves to make me suffer twice since I absolutely cannot back out of the contest. The liquid fire ravages my innards. I must have swallowed lava. I stumble forward and completely lose my balance.
“Oooooooawawawa.”
Oh this is quite nice, in fact. I should not be so worried and oh. Oh no.
I collapse and retch bile, then grab my suddenly painful head between two clammy hands. Impossible. Impossible!
The dragon upends the bottle in his maw using nothing but the power of his mind since moving one’s limb is apparently too pedestrian. The titanic head splits to reveal fangs as large as support beams. It closes immediately afterwards.
“A pleasant surprise, I should demand a few more crates, though it could have been aged a few more millenia. Well, it was a pleasant starter. Next, we raise the stakes with a nice Gordian firebelly rum from the first Blood Court invasion. Unless, of course, you give up.”
“I apologize but I believe I must withdraw before the next drink sets me on fire.”
“What a shame.”
A new bottle appears in the air, this one actually on fire. A rainbow liquid emerges from it and levitates into the creature’s monstrous mouth. The dragon inhales, exhales, and the mere smell of alcohol forces a hand to my mouth.
“Too sweet. Well, what is your next attempt, I wonder?”
“Hmm. Err. Riddles?”
The dragon snorts yet another storm.
“You are missing far too much context to appreciate my riddles, but do ask yours and if I fail — and it is not some ‘what is in my pocket’ nonsense — I shall declare you the victor.”
“Oh, uh, hmmm. I am worse than the devil, better than… a god, rich folks need me, poor folks have me, and if you eat me, you die. What am I?”
The dragon literally plucks the knowledge of god and the devil from my mind and without my consent, with such delicate ease that I feel him doing it and it does not hurt.
“Your cosmogony lacks sex, in my opinion. And the answer is nothing.”
“Aw. I liked that one. Alright. I come from nothing. I have no taste, no smell, no consistency, yet I am more painful than the sharpest dagger, and I have destroyed empires and laid waste to armies. What am I?”
“Hmph, even your riddles are born from a void. You are hunger. It fits you, little predator.”
“Damn. Hmmm, a king has five miners who produce the same amount of gold coins every day, but one of the miners shaves an ounce from each of his coins. The king has a magical scale of devilish precision with a large capacity but only one use. How can he know in one go which of his miners is stealing from him?”
“Interesting. I faced a similar situation some time ago. My method was more… definitive. You merely measure one coin of miner one, two coins from miner two, all the way to five against fifteen normal coins. If you are one ounce short, it is miner one, two short, miner two, and so on. An amusing childish guess. It reminds me of different times, when will was not enough to alter the world. Anything else?”
I do not think I can beat this ancient wit. I challenged him because I was out of ideas, and also because it felt story-like enough. Unfortunately, it will not be enough. I still decide to give it my best try.
“A princess is as old as the prince will be when the princess is twice the age that the prince was when the princess's age was half the sum of their present ages.”
That gives the dragon a second of pause, but only a second.
“An interesting concept, to muddle a matrix with a deliberately obtuse formulation. It unfortunately limits those tricks to base tongues, but it does give me an idea using the Song of Beginnings and its three versions. Hmmm, yes, I believe I can provide my peers with quite a conundrum. Oh, and your princess is four thirds of the age of your prince, and the prince three fourths of the age of the princess.”
That is it. I give up. I have nothing more twisted. If only Isaac was here with some Rosenthal puzzle. Alas.
“Do you have more?” the dragon asks.
“Nothing that would pose a challenge.”
“What a shame. Well, this meeting was not a complete waste of my time at least. I am still far from being defeated, however.”
“How about… a painting challenge?” I offer.
“And I have to provide the supplies again. Hmph. Fair enough, I suppose. We shall draw each other.”
“I have a pen,” I answer defensively, and so I do.
The dragon gives me a canvas and lets me work. I decide to pick the view of his shape far up, just under the clouds, his wings ablaze. I take good care to blur the air around his shape to express just how breathtaking he appeared. While I draw the rest of the sky and the distant mountains with as much realism as possible, the shapes and lines of perspective bends around his form. More than anything, I try to convey how unattainable he seemed, how I felt like a wolf jumping after the moon’s reflection on the surface of a placid lake, thinking they would reach the real thing. I tried to convey the vain hope I felt when I told Metis I would bite him. It is perhaps the smallest subject I have ever drawn since most of the emotion will come from its surroundings. When I pull away from my last adjustments, an unknown period of time has passed, yet the Thirst is still kept at bay.
The dragon inspects my work. I can tell from the slight sheen emanating from the colorful bits that I have succeeded, and that the painting would produce an effect on the mind of men, should it be brought back to earth. He keeps silent for quite some time before harrumphing.
“Very well. Here is my piece.”
As before, a canvas appears from the empty air. The dragon then exhales loudly. Bubbles of color escape his maw in a display that would be humorous if he were not so terrifying. They coalesce around the canvas, merging together until the painting is little more than a swirl. Suddenly, the scene appears.
***
July. I am eighteen. To celebrate, Papa opened a bottle of rum as old as I was on the porch overlooking the garden. He poured the old liquor in three glasses during lunch, before friends and guests would arrive. Sugar cane syrup and lemon juice joined it to form a murky mix, the vapors strangely powerful.
“My daughter, you are an adult now. Soon you will leave the nest.”
“She could have already,” Achille comments in a teasing voice.
“Hush you. I wish your mother were here with us but I know, wherever she is, she must be proud and happy. You have both grown into the people we always hoped you would become.”
“Aw,” I say, moved to tears.
“Hug!” Achille uncharacteristically says. He was never tactile.
They both embrace me, then our glasses meet with a merry chime and we drink. A powerful taste washes over my tongue, softened by the sweet aroma of the syrup. Achille clears his throat.
“Oh, yes, that’s an adult drink and no mistake.”
We all laugh. The noon light shines upon the carmine of mother’s roses. They look exceptional this year.
***
Aaaaand I am crying again. I stop my hand from reaching to Achille’s smile, father’s muscular back, and the healthy hale on our sun-kissed skins. They have left this world while only I remain, but on the canvas and in my heart, they still live.
“So beautiful.”
I drink in the moment and they let me. Eventually, I turn my attention to the old one.
“I do not have words in Akkad or Likaean that could do this justice. May I keep it?”
The dragon frowns and for a moment, I fear the worst, but he relents.
“I agree to a swap. I shall keep this rendition of mine, although it is… hmph. You are quite young. I judge it passable.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You lose, by the way.”
“Yes, I did, did I not? Or rather, you won.”
I grab the painting, which the dragon rolled into a protective case through an effort of will. The process gives me a few seconds to think. Unless the princes have come up with another idea, and from their dejected faces, they have not, the arrogant twerps unused to defeat, then we are at an impasse.
I wish we had someone to blame besides us, but we do not. We were so focused on beating the competition to the dragon that we underestimated how difficult it would be to take that last step. In a way, we were right to account for Revas and his tremendous means, we just had the misfortune of meeting the dragon while he was in a bad mood. Now, the fact remains that I have no skill the dragon the dragon is not better at. We simply cannot outperform this old monster. I might as well just…
Wait.
Hold on.
Hmmmm.
“Do you have something else or can I go to sleep?” the dragon rumbles.
“Yes, I do, in fact, have something else,” I reply with the most innocent smile I can muster.
This immediately makes them all suspicious, and for good reasons! But I shall take comfort in the fact that, even if it does not work, at least the dragon will pay for what we have been through to reach him.
“We are going to sing!” I exclaim.
“By all the spheres, no…” Sinead breathes, too late.
“You want to challenge me to a singing contest?” the dragon asks with naked contempt.
“Yes. Opera arias to begin with. We shall operate according to the same rules as the riddle. I shall sing until I give up, or until you find a song you deem worthy! Ready?”
The dragon inspects me with suspicion, yet he is just as bound by the rules as we are.
“You may begin.”
“Excellent.”
As a starter, I sing my favorite aria: Prendi, per me sei libero from L’elisir d’amore by Donizetti. Once I am done, I see that Sinead has stuffed his ear with fabric he tore from his under armor while Khadras slowly blinks, shocked to his core. As for the dragon, he gives no reaction except for an extremely dilated pupil.
“No comments? I shall go on then.”
Thus begins my campaign of death and destruction on classical composition. I slaughter Lucia di Lammermoor, maim La Traviata, defile Rigoletto, and mangle Aida which only just came out. After I am done insulting the Italians, it is Mozart I choose to vandalize. I massacre the Zauberflote, especially the air of the Queen of the Night which I handle particularly atrociously, then it is the turn of Don Giovanni to be violated. Figaro regrets ever getting wedded after I am done with him. I take a small detour by Paris to ravage Berlioz’ ‘Les Troyens’, then off to Russia I am to tickle Tchaikovsky. After what must be hours enjoying the increasingly horrified faces of my spectators, I pause to give them a chance to intervene before I go from mild insult to actual torture, and also before I return to Italy to give Rossini what he did not deserve.
“I…” the dragon starts.
He stops for a moment, apparently at a loss for words.
“How can this be? I can tell you love music and you are genuinely trying, and I can tell you have practiced. It is almost good, then a wrong note or slight waver ruins the song, and then you improve until I gather hope which you promptly dash again. How, in the name of the spheres, can you be so bad?”
“Perhaps I just need more practice,” I reply with a smile. “I still have much to sing, and then we can start on the male arias, and then the choirs!”
The dragon inhales, no doubt contemplating weeks of uninterrupted musical damnation.
“Extraordinary,” he finally says after a minute of silence. “I must say I have not been this surprised since Erikel the mad tried to graft dove wings on my nostrils.”
The dragon sighs a storm again. We all hold our metaphorical breaths, knowing that our fate hangs in the balance. This is it.
“Hmph, it is as little Carnaciel says. One can train for a millenium to obtain proficiency, but an eternity is not enough to grow a sense of humor. I may have been… difficult with you lot. You all seem quite young. Oh very well, I applaud your efforts and your creativity. You have impressed me enough that I grant you this victory. Hmph!”
I try my best not to exult too visibly, although I have no doubt the dragon can see it well enough.
“You may ask for a boon, starting with the strange girl. What is it you desire?”
“Dragon blood! I want dragon blood! Some of your blood! Please!”
“And you shall have it.”
The majestic being places a siege-weapon-sized claw against his chest, above the heart, and pulls. Although his scale remains intact, a single droplet of precious liquid levitates above the razor-thin tip. It approaches me.
“Open wide.”
I do so, if only to voice my protest at this casual treatment of the most precious of gifts. Immediately, the droplet lands on my tongue and I —
Ah.
***
Three months later, Court of Blue training gardens.
Sinead walked the steps leading to the deep undergrowth where Blue Court warriors faced beasts and each other in vicious battles. His sure steps found footing among the treacherous roots, carrying him forward up the winding path. All the while, his mind churned with plans and machinations, for the third and final trial would soon be upon him. He found Cadiz sitting on the stone a distance away. Night birds flew around him as he rested, a hand placed on his essence blade.
Cadiz illustrated the blind spots inherent to obsessed blade masters, Sinead thought. They, most of all, had trouble accepting that others would live by different values, or would not pursue excellence in a discipline with maniacal focus. At least the old vampire acknowledged his weakness while others did not.
“How is she?” Sinead asked.
Cadiz replied with a clipped accent, his Liakean cracking at the seams to reveal the translated Akkad underneath. Not everyone possessed the inherent skill to learn the perfect tongue.
“Articulate. She asked for my blood.”
“Please tell me you did not give it to her!” Sinead hissed.
Cadiz shrugged.
“It will make no difference at this stage. Besides, she asked me. I cannot refuse one who can beat me so soundly. I have to trigger my Magna Arqa just for a chance to resist her onslaught and she is not even trying seriously. If she asks me for an admission of her superiority, I have to grant it. A Devourer would not tolerate a refusal.”
“I hope you are right.”
“You should talk to her. I believe she has mostly returned to sobriety.”
Sinead nodded and moved on. At the end of a path, he found a secluded glade. The girl sat on a root incongruously grown in its midst. The starlight hit her in a way that broke his concentration. Suddenly, all his planning and calculations ceased, because she was here, just as precious and beautiful as the first day he beheld her, though they had both grown in the meanwhile. Her feet were bare since she had started to refuse shoes. A simple linen dress covered her from the shoulders down to her knees. She delicately held a moonchaser hare by the ears. Those were reputedly impossible to catch on account of their ability to phase through solid matter, a boon that had not sufficed to stop his clueless poppet. The hare itself had stopped struggling while she inspected it, poking its fluffy legs on occasion. She turned to him with obvious excitement.
“Rabbit,” she announced.
“Technically, it is a hare, a different species.”
“RABBIT!”
She suddenly seemed moved to tears, beholding her caught prey with all the wonder of a child discovering chocolate.
“Rabbiiiiiiiiiiiit,” she sobbed.
“Yes, I find their fur amazing too, poppet.”
“Sinead! It is you! Yay! We should make love!”
“Not until you are yourself again, my dear.”
“Aw.”
“You need to pull yourself together so you can return home, poppet. The others are waiting. You have a world to save.”
The earth dipped under his feet and it was all he could do to remain standing. Suddenly, Ariane was very close, though she was still sitting on her root, and still holding the hare. He looked up to the summer sky of her eyes. They were frowning mightily.
“You are trying to get rid of meeeeee. I can tell. Have you killed Revas yet?”
“No. I still have to compete in the last trial, but would you not prefer to return to your land? I do not need you to participate.”
“Nah, you need me to win! No unfinished business. I hate unfinished business! If I leave and you die I shall be upset forever! It is so.”
She nodded to herself.
“So… you wish to help me triumph?” he asked.
“Yus! Triumph! And sex!”
“A better program I have never heard.”