Margaret Weis: Rage of the Dragon

“It’s not going to kill you. Look, I’ll wrap it up in part of my shirt-”

Wulfe was shaking his head. “It doesn’t like me. I can tell…”

“Wulfe, I need you to hide this!” Aylaen said desperately. “We might be captured and … and…”

“You don’t want Treia to find it,” said Wulfe.

Aylaen was quiet a moment and then she said softly, “Yes.”

Wulfe slipped his hand into hers. “We’ll hide it together. I’ll show you where. You put it inside and I’ll use my magic to keep it safe. And the dragon will help us.”

Wulfe started running, tugging her along. The moment Aylaen let go of the mast and stepped into the gray world she became disoriented and confused. She could not see anything; the mist swam before her eyes. Wulfe appeared to have some sense of where he was going, for he dragged her along confidently. She stumbled after him and tried not to think about tumbling overboard.

“We’re here,” Wulfe said. “There’s my hiding hole.”

Aylaen put her hand on the carved wooden neck of the dragonhead prow. Above her was the nail from which hung the spiritbone of the Dragon Kahg. Aylaen knelt down on the deck and stared intently where Wulfe was pointing at the bulkhead.

“Where? I don’t see anything.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Wulfe. “It’s hidden.” He added something beneath his breath about “stupid Uglies.”

“How do you get into it?” Aylaen asked. The wooden planks looked as though they hadn’t been touched in years, since the carpenter nailed them in place.

Wulfe began to sing.

Open to my waiting hand.

Open to my knowing eye.

Open to my little song.

Open it and don’t take long.

To Aylaen’s vast astonishment, a piece of the plank disappeared, revealing a snug cubbyhole that had been carved out of the bulkhead. The hole was lined with sail cloth and filled with objects too varied and numerous to count. Aylaen caught a quick glimpse of what looked like a lock of her hair, a piece of charred bone, and a silver thimble. Then Wulfe clapped his grubby hands over her eyes.

“Don’t look!” Wulfe ordered. “I have important things in here that you mustn’t see.”

“I’ll keep my eyes closed,” Aylaen offered, mystified by what she had seen.

“You better,” said Wulfe, and he slowly drew away his hand.

He put his hand on her hand that was holding the spiritbone and guided her to the cubbyhole. She wondered if there would be room inside for the necklace, for it was large, and the cubbyhole had seemed very small and almost stuffed to capacity. It must have been larger than she imagined, for she had no trouble sliding the necklace inside.

“Don’t open your eyes yet,” Wulfe cautioned.

Aylaen obeyed and sat back on her heels, her eyes squinched tightly shut. She heard him rooting about in the cubbyhole and then, when he apparently had arranged everything to his liking, he told her she could open her eyes. Aylaen saw that everything, presumably including the spiritbone, was now covered with the sail cloth.

Aylaen hesitated. “Will I be able to the find the hiding hole again? Will the magic work for me?”

Wulfe snorted in derision. “You’re an Ugly! No, it won’t work!”

He cast a glance in the direction of the dragon’s head that was somewhere above them and whispered, “But I think if you wanted the necklace and the dragon wanted you to have it, the dragon would help.”

Aylaen couldn’t see the dragon’s head, obscured by the thick mist, but she could see a flicker of red gleam from Kahg’s eye.

“You can close the hole now,” said Aylaen.

Wulfe replaced the plank and began to sing another song.

Keep safe from thieving hands.

Keep safe from spying eyes.

Let them meet a swift demise.

Aylaen blinked. The cubbyhole was gone. The bulkhead looked as though it had never been disturbed. She could even discern rust on the nail heads. She reached out her hand to touch it and felt the wood, rough and solid and wet beneath her fingers.

“What does ‘demise’ mean?” Wulfe asked.

“‘Dying,’” Aylaen answered. She wrapped her arms around herself. The fog was chill and damp. “In this instance, ‘death.’ ‘Let them meet a swift death.’ If you didn’t know what the word meant, why did you use it?”

“My mother taught me the song. She taught me lots of songs and all of them are magic like this one. Only some of them are a lot more powerful.”

“Like turning yourself into a wolf?” Aylaen asked, shivering. The chill was creeping into her bones.

“My mother didn’t do that to me!” Wulfe cried, bouncing up angrily. “My mother loves me. She came to me every night and she held me and sang to me and told me to remember the songs because they would protect me from you Uglies who hate us and fear us.”

“I don’t hate you,” said Aylaen gently.

“But you’re afraid of me,” Wulfe mumbled. His eyes brimmed with tears that spilled over and ran down his cheeks, leaving tracks in the dirt. He dragged his hand across his nose. “Because I can change into a wolf.”

Aylaen leaned back against the bulkhead.

“I am afraid of you. Like you’re afraid of Skylan.”

“I’m not!” Wulfe said indignantly.

“Even though you know Skylan loves you and would never hurt you, you run away when he draws his sword.”

“I don’t like swords,” said Wulfe.

He sat down beside her. He was silent a long while, considering her words, then he lifted his eyes to meet hers. “I think I understand. And I want you to know that even if I am a wolf sometimes I would never hurt you or Skylan.”

Aylaen smoothed back the shaggy hair from his forehead. “I’m not afraid that you would hurt me. I’m afraid because I don’t understand why this happens to you.”

“My grandmother,” said Wulfe. “She put a curse on me because I am part human. My mother tried to lift the curse, but she couldn’t.”

Wulfe sighed. “I miss my mother.”

“I miss my mother, too,” said Aylaen.

She put her arm around him and felt his tense body relax against hers.

“I might hurt Treia, though,” Wulfe said, and before Aylaen could say anything, he jumped to his feet and ran off, disappearing into the fog. Aylaen could hear his bare feet pattering across the deck.

Hurt Treia … Back in Sinaria, Treia had looked straight at Aylaen and cried in fury, This is your fault. You should be dead! Why aren’t you dead?

“My fault,” Aylaen repeated softly. “I am the one who should be dead.”

Aylaen was supposed to have died in Sinaria. But she had survived and her survival had somehow ruined Treia’s plans. Aylaen had tried for so long to love her sister. She had defended Treia. She had forced Skylan to rescue Treia from the dragon Treia had brought into being. Keeper had planned to take them to the ogres, speak for them. Treia had poisoned Keeper. Skylan had tried to warn Aylaen about her sister, but she had refused to listen. Now if the ogres captured them, they would die and it would be her fault.

Aylaen heard Skylan calling softly to her. She stood up and groped her way across the deck, following the sound of his voice.

“Where’s Wulfe?” he asked, and then his gaze went to her neck. His eyes widened in alarm. “Where’s the spiritbone?”

“I hid it,” she said. “Wulfe helped me.”

Aylaen was afraid he would be angry and was relieved when Skylan smiled. “He showed you his cubbyhole.”

“You know about that?”

“I know he has one. I don’t know where it is and I don’t want to know. Are you confident it is safe?”

“I don’t even know how to find it,” said Aylaen. “It is hidden in the bones of the ship. If something happens to us, the Dragon Kahg will protect it.”