Ширли Мерфи - Nightpool

Then he saw children gathered, singing the same song he heard, and he saw the bard who led them, standing tall between the feet of a pearl-white dragon who sang with him; he heard her song so clearly he started. And she made the songs come to life more clearly than he ever had. He could hear the shouts, and smell the horses and the blood, smell the sweat of the soldiers and hear their cries. The dragon made it more real than ever he could have done. And he knew her—for it was himself there standing between her claws. He was certain all at once what his sense of power meant, and knew why he longed for the dragon: He knew at last with thundering clarity what he was born to do. The word “dragonbard” flared in his mind, and all the songs he knew glowed bright and waiting, meant to be told, meant to be sung, coupled with the voice of the dragon. It was bard and dragon together who made the songs live, made them real in the listener’s mind as if he were truly there hearing the shouting and feeling the pain and joy. She was a time-creature, taking the listener back, making him live that time so he knew it as a part of himself. Dragon and bard together, the making of song, the making of a magical reliving, the continued rebirth of life, and of hope.

But then the brightness faded and his songs began to darken and to change, and he could not prevent the changing. Now he saw himself forcing the will of the dragon, making it sing new, dark words. And in the darkness, he knew that dragons had no right to make songs, that only he could make them, painted in darkness, and that the dragon must be made to follow him. Oh, yes, she would follow. The colors of his songs were dark and fine, and a great crowd gathered to hear him and to believe him. He felt his own power rising, growing, saw the throngs that mobbed around him, yearning for his words. Yes, this was the way, the way of the dark, the way the hydrus showed him, yes. This was what he would do with his life—bring the dragon to him and train her to sing as he wished, as the dark wished, for he was the master, not she. His vision was steeped in shadows and black mists that matched the voice in his mind, strong and soothing and shaping his need, pushing back the flare of conscience that prickled him.

He lay, at last, spent, spread-eagled along the wall. The circle of sea at the bottom of the stone tower was empty now. Above him the sky was dark but cloud-driven, the sun long since gone and the sea wind chilled. He lay there for hours, listening, seeing, changing inside himself. He thought of the hydrus now with warmth and knew it had been right to bring him here, knew it was the wisest of creatures, knew it would care for him.

He sat up, ignoring thirst. He ate some barnacles, sucking their meager juice. He must bring the dragon here, the small dragon, the one called Seastrider, yes, and together they would make their songs here. He would train her here under the knowing guidance of the hydrus, he would train her to the true way. Dark songs, yes, compelling songs to lead in righteousness the hordes that must be led. . . .

At last he slept, flung across the wall.

Chapter 18

How long the hydrus kept Teb he had no idea. Time swam in dark patches of dream, and in between he drank from the collected dew in the niches, and ate barnacles, and slept, or thought he did these things. He was sure of nothing but the thoughts of the hydrus guiding him as he huddled atop the stone wall, chill at night and burning in the daytime, calling and calling to the dragon, demanding that she come to him.

But then, sometimes his mind would lock against the hydrus in weak battle and he would lie shivering, knowing something that he could not bring clear, and then he did not call out to the young dragon, but weakly warned her away. Yet these transgressions were shortlived, and then he would once more cleave to the dark will of the hydrus, knowing that this was the true way.

He hardly remembered any life before this. The otters were a vague memory of something imagined, and there was nothing before that at all. Only the demands of the hydrus were real. The dragon must come; it was urgent that she come so they could begin their quest.

Oh, he would be a persuasive singer—the hydrus told him so. His voice was clear and strong, very right for the ballads, and the visions he made were sharp with detail. Linked with the dragon the songs would be rich beyond belief, and soon Tirror would know the real tales, and Quazelzeg would bring to all the nations a time of truth and new rule. For only in Quazelzeg’s plan was there truth. Only when all humankind and animals served the true masters in unquestioning obedience, putting aside their own unorganized and arbitrary pursuits, swearing fealty only to Quazelzeg’s vision, would there be true design and harmony on Tirror. And wouldn’t he sing of Quazelzeg’s virtues? All the songs, now, were filled with his virtues. Teb’s commitment built, and the small voice inside that cried out against the hydrus’s deceit was stilled by Teb himself.

Yet that voice would not be completely stilled and made him twist and fight in his sleep. But then when he woke, the dark would take him once more and he would call out to the dragon with all the lure he knew. She must come, the one dragon must come to him for him to be whole and skilled and able at Quazelzeg’s work. He must teach the joys of obedience, show each commoner the true way in serving the benevolent dark masters. And it was through the power of the dragon songs, bringing alive such joys, that all commoners could be made to understand.

He had no notion how much time had passed, nor did he care, the morning the hydrus brought him down off the wall simply by commanding him to dive. He dove willingly down into the small circle of sea, and the hydrus herded him through the opening and out into the sunken city.

Broken walls rose out of the water, thick with barnacles and moss. Tangled sea plants grew in shadowed ponds under low roofs and up stairways. Schools of small fish flashed through window openings. Eels hunted in dark watery chambers. The hydrus herded him toward a stair. He climbed, and found himself in a small room and heard a stone slab pulled across. Again he was a prisoner, and alone.

The room must have been situated high up in the palace, perhaps an attic or storeroom. There was a great stone basin that might have been for bathing, and when he tasted the water it held, it was fresh. He drank gulping, dipping his whole face in.

Around the base of the steps that led down into the sea, oysters and mussels clung in abundance, and it was this as much as the fresh water that made him know the hydrus was prepared to keep him here for some time. He pulled his knife from his belt and ate, stuffing himself, wanting the strength the food would give. It would take all the power he had to subdue the dragon and train her, all his strength, perhaps, simply to make her come to him, for it seemed he had been trying a long time.

*

Seastrider knew Teb called to her. Dawncloud also knew, and while the young dragon was in a frenzy to go to him and to battle the hydrus, Dawncloud bade her wait; Dawncloud bellowed a challenge to the hydrus and to the dark, her green eyes blazing, and she bade the dragonling wait. She saw her own songs warped and twisted and darkening Teb’s mind, so fury held her. She bid Seastrider wait, her voice like a clap of thunder. He must defeat the hydrus alone!

The dragonlings looked at her and were still, curling down in the nest, Seastrider shivering.

So they waited, knowing the awesome twisting of the dark songs, knowing Tebriel’s acceptance of the dark and, sometimes, his feeble battle. They knew the power that held Tebriel was like a killing fever. They waited, patient as only dragons can be patient, as night followed day and moon followed moon and winter brought raging winds and heaving seas. They felt Teb’s chill of body and spirit, his fear. They saw spring begin, a watery sun. They saw the otters searching, in Mernmeth and Pinssra and even as far as Naiheth. But the drowned city where Tebriel was held lay far, far from those submerged villages. They saw the otters give up hope at last, all but the white otter leader. They saw a time when Tebriel seemed lost, sunk steadily into the realm of the dark, grown thin and scowling and without joy. They waited with a dragon’s patience, all but Seastrider, who fidgeted and lurched out on the winds and could not be still and sent all her young power to join with Tebriel in his battle. And still they waited. Then at last, they saw Tebriel rise in his spirit and recapture a living strength. They saw him begin to battle with a new fierceness; they saw his consciousness accept and know, at last, the powerful treachery that gripped his senses.