Chapter 14: The Boy

The small drops and dribbles of Saoirse's magic the dragon had licked up from the rocks where Alyse had stood gurgled in the dragon's belly and brought visions. For more than a year, it slept, until the prophecies, like butter emerging from the churn, congealed.

There is a lover!

Small bolts of colored lightning flashed among the floating dragon goo, as electric messages darted from synapse to synapse: Coalesce and kill.

Its huge mind formed, the brain tissue fusing. And around its brain, an obsidian cranium solidified. Centuries had passed since the dragon's bones had all been obsidian.

A new thought, “How glorious we once were,” slowed and halted the reconstitution process.

Atrophied parts of its complex mind prickled with awareness. “Are we nothing but a beast which hungers and eats?”

“How long has it been since we plucked a melody from the strings?” said another.

“Or listened to the wind to learn poetry?” said a third.

“Or called to the starlings and futilely tried to dart as they darted and turn as they turned and dive as they dove?” laughed a fourth, its laughter dying in anguish.

The lava cooled.

Reason spoke. “We waste away as snot and floating foam. Finish the act.”

“But we were more,” said another.

“And will be again,” said Reason. “Coalesce.”

At Reason's command, the dragon's long snout emerged from the lava. Horns grew on its head. Heart, lungs, liver, stomach, and its huge tail formed. Shrinking, now only four hundred and seventy-five feet long, the remainder of its flesh it converted to magic, magic that satisfied its aching hunger and sharpened its mind. This secret, the secret of cannibalizing itself, had given the dragon the magic it had needed to fight much larger dragons and win, quickly eating their flesh to grow again. This cycle the dragon had repeated over and over, eating itself, fighting, and eating its victim, until all the dragons were gone, until it could not sniff another. As it opened its eyes, dread permeated every scale and fear lurked in the smelly slime under its tongue.

It swam miles in underground rivers of lava, emerging in the cone of a volcano not two miles off the coast near the port of Tirikan. With stiff flaps of its wings, it flew to the rim. The night was moonless; clouds blotted out the stars. It yawned and stretched, longing to shatter the darkness with its roar, to feel the people tremble.

“Wait, wait,” Reason spoke. “Plot. Plan. Pluck her only when she is ripe.”

How? How could the beast wait? It could taste her on its tongue. Sweet, juicy. She was candy; she was meat; a banquet in a bite.

“Wait,” Reason spoke again. “She grows ever more delicious. For now, secure the battlefield. Kill the lover.”

The dragon unfurled its great wings, and flying throughout the night, high above the clouds, it soared over Castle Laoch. The stone fortress, nestled in a forest of oaks, was smaller than many the Keep of a lesser family. Laoch’s crest proclaimed “Strength before pride.”

Soaring overhead, the dragon sniffed out the revolting stench of love. “Ugh,” it spit, raining down droplets scented with sulfur. It chose by chance to rest near a pond. Curled into a ball, its scales flattened, it looked like a huge, oblong, black rock.

Not three days had it rested by the pond, when Aonair, laughing, raced ahead down the hill, running so fast he almost tumbled into the cresting lake, filled with spring runoff. Shock stopped him in three steps. A large, smooth, black rock, well over fifty feet or more high, and at least three hundred feet long, sat half-in and half-out of the pond. No rock had been there last year, on this same day, when his mother had brought him here for his birthday picnic.

Love has a peculiar aroma, pungent, overly sweet—no, disgustingly sweet. And predestined love, love ordained by magic, gifted by magic, woven into each child while in the womb, was the sweetest of all. It was this love, its putrid sweetness, that troubled the beast's nostrils.

What? Could fate ever smile so broadly? Has the lover come to me?

The rock uncurled its long tail, whipped its huge head about. Ten-year-old Aonair trembled, rooted to the spot, unable to move. Shiny, black scales appeared on the beast's back and tail. Jagged spikes forming hundreds of small, thorn-like horns emerged from its head and ran down the center of its long spine. Legs, feet, and claws grew from its belly. It smelled of rotten eggs and choking smoke. How quickly the dragon read the boy's open and trusting mind, not yet closed to him with the coming of adulthood.

Spewing hot, foul air, the dragon spoke. “How convenient, Aonair, that you have come to me.” Rearing back, it sucked in air so vigorously it was as if a strong wind blew. Tree branches bent toward the beast, and Aonair's long, curly, dark hair flowed out in front of his face. The dragon opened its huge, black serpent's mouth, its tongue black, its teeth black. Heat shimmered the air . . .

“Aonair!” His mother's scream unfroze him.

He turned to dive into the water.

She leapt; the flames shot out of the dragon's mouth searing the right side of Aonair’s body. An instant later, his mother’s body impacted Aonair’s pushing him out of the blazing funnel of fire. He screamed with pain, and the freezing water took his scream. Down, down, he plunged, terror surging through his body. He swam deeper and deeper. A current grabbed his arms, his body, his legs; and he swam into it, fear urging him into the depths. How quickly he moved, as the underground river become a torrent, shooting him through caverns formed by rocks long ago worn smooth.

He couldn't breathe!

Around him the world was as black as the dragon's mouth. He skimmed the rock walls. As the smooth stone touched the seared skin of his right shoulder, pain forced a soundless scream from his mouth.

The current brought him to the surface, spitting him out into a rapidly widening river. He flailed in the water, bringing himself up to breathe. When the river had tossed and tumbled him for at least a mile, so shallow did it become that floating face up, he scraped the sandy bottom. He came to rest on a flat rock, only his face above the water, so that the icy water still flowing over him dulled the pain.

The day dragged on. He cried out, “Help, help,” his voice less than a whisper.

On that same day, which was also Saoirse's tenth birthday, she was given a dapple-gray foal with a coal black mane and tail. She named her mare Storm. What a grand party she had. Musicians played. Saoirse holding tight to her father's hands, danced around in a circle. Three times he threw her into the air. Lemon cakes were baked and gobbled down still warm. There were games and gifts. Saoirse got to shoot a bow and arrow. She didn't hit the target, but she tried fourteen times until her arms tired.

As the happy day wound to a close, oh, how Alyse admonished her. “Saoirse, it is time for bed.” But her feet would be dancing; they sent her twirling about the room. “Come, come,” Alyse called. “The world will still be here tomorrow.”

When Saoirse's head hit the pillow, the day in all its busy brightness settled upon her and weighed down her eyelids. She had risen early, when the sun had turned the sky pink. And it was so late, the clock had already chimed eleven times. Her eyes closed—and the vision revealed itself.

She saw the boy—and she was the boy—feeling the pain he felt, trembling from it. The water flowed over him—over her—soothing and painful all at the same time. Her face, her shoulder, screamed!

A loud, troubled voice called in the night, “Aonair! Aonair!”

So familiar. A friend—no, a brother. “He's calling me. I'm Aonair.”

“Call out,” she whispered. “Call out. He's here to help you.”

The boy closed his eyes, willing death to take him.

“No, no.” She reached out, trying to hold him. The more she reached, the clearer the vision: a broad, shallow river. She was lying on a rock, only her nose and mouth out of the near-freezing water. Above the stars and a full moon looked down on her.

The stars . . .

She pulled them to herself. Come, colors, come. In her bed, in Castle Togair, hidden beneath the covers, the sixteen birthmarks on her right arm twinkled. Lying in the river, above her, the stars fell from the sky, alighting on her—alighting on him—strengthening him.

“Aonair! Aonair!” The voice was more distant.

A cry burst from his mouth. “Eoghan! Help!”

When she woke in the wee hours, Saoirse told Alyse of the dream. “We've got to help him.”

“But lass, it was only a dream.”

“We've got to find him. He's in a river!”

“You don't even know if this is true.”

Saoirse's gut wrapped itself in knots. She ran to the chamber pot, retching.

Alyse wet a cloth and wiped her mouth.

“Help me,” Saoirse pleaded. “I need to get dressed.”

“The sun is still abed.”

“I'll take father's stallion. He's the fastest in the stable.”

“Take him where?”

She grasped Alyse's shoulders. “Please.” Her eyes pleaded with Alyse. “I've got to save him. Please.”

“Lass, you've only got the remnants of dream. They are not enough to find him.”

“His name is Aonair. His brother is Eoghan.”

“Laoch.” The name jumped from Alyse's lips before she had the presence of mind to pretend she didn't know.

“You know them!” Saoirse began to shake Alyse. “Who are they!”

“Those are the names of two of Lord Laoch's sons. Eoghan is the oldest, Aonair the youngest.”

“Come!” Saoirse tried to drag Alyse from the room, but Alyse was twice as strong.

“No, lass. NO!”

“I've got to go!”

“You'll give yourself away.” And with that, Alyse threw Saoirse down on the bed and sat on her. Never had Alyse been so glad of her big backside. Saoirse flayed but couldn't dislodge her. She beat against Alyse until Alyse got ahold of her hands and pinned them to the bed.

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“You don't understand. He is everything.”

“I do understand, lass. You are everything to me.”

By breakfast Saoirse had calmed, though she didn't know why. The terrible urgency was gone, leaving in its wake complete exhaustion.

A day later, in the evening, when the family was at table, a messenger burst into the Great Hall, shouting, “Dragon! Dragon!”

“What?” Her father jumped to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. “Where?”

“At Castle Laoch. The beast attacked Laoch's wife and killed her. His youngest is also missing.”

Saoirse looked down at her sixteen star-shaped freckles, but they remained dark. Alyse had repeatedly cautioned her. “Say nothing. Keep the lights hidden.” The last time they had twinkled, Nana had been taken away. Saoirse pressed her forearm tightly to her dress, wiggling down a bit in her chair, so that her arm was beneath the table. With her birthmarks safely hidden, she glanced upward, amazed to see a red light around her father's face, and another around her mother's.

They're afraid.

Slowly, her father picked up his chair and sat back down. To a servant standing nearby with more gravy, he calmly said, “Call for Seer Murtagh.” Then to the messenger, “Come, sit down. I would see you fed.” While Lady Togair visibly trembled, Lord Togair buttered a piece of toast and ate it. Watching her husband, the calm way he ate, slowly the red light around Lady Togair's face faded. Yet the bright scarlet around Lord Togair's head remained.

Seer Murtagh hurried into the room. He, too, took a seat at the table.

As wine and food were brought for the messenger, Lord Togair said, “Please tell us all you know.”

Taking a swift gulp of wine, the messenger began. “Lady Laoch and Aonair, my lord's youngest . . . ”

At his name, Saoirse jerked. “Aonair?”

“Yes, my lady—”

“Is he okay?”

The messenger looked at Lord Togair as if asking permission.

Lord Togair nodded.

“I don't know. When I was dispatched, the whole castle was still looking for him.”

“But—”

“—Saoirse,” her father's voice was stern, “if you cannot be quiet, you will have to return to your room.”

Her shoulders slumped; she stopped speaking.

The messenger continued. “When Lady Laoch and the boy did not return, my lord sent his eldest, Eoghan”—Saoirse trembled at his name—”to look for them. He found Lady Laoch hideously burned. The boy he didn't find. I was dispatched when Eoghan returned to muster more men.”

Saoirse jumped out of her chair, ran around the table, and laid her hand on the messenger's arm. “He's in the river. You've got to go back. Please, please,” she begged, “tell them, Aonair is in the river.”

“Saoirse, that's enough!” Her father's voice seethed with anger. But it wasn't the anger in his voice that caused her to pull back her hand, or gasp in fright. It was the light, brighter now, throbbing red around her father's head, and with the light came the color sound. Gong! Gong! Like the tower bell ringing out an alarm.

“This is not pretend,” Lord Togair said. “This is not one of your games. Go to your room.”

So loud! Saoirse saw his lips move, but the clanging deafened her. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears.

Her father's fist crashed down on the table, rattling the dishes, splattering food. “Isabeau, take the child to her room.”

Trembling, Lady Togair took Saoirse's hand, dragging her up the long staircase and locking her in her room. When the bolt slid into place, Saoirse finally freed from the deafening sound, crumpled to the floor.

Alyse, Alyse.

No one came. That night she lay awake, trying to reach Aonair. She remembered the dream—and the stars. But it was gone, all the magic was gone. She couldn't touch him or feel him.

“Maybe he's dead. But he cried out. I know he did.”

Saoirse woke the next morning to the ping of hammers on rock and men shouting. Lord Togair had ordered the walls strengthened, reinforced with another layer of stone. At ten in the morning, it was Alyse who unlocked her door. Saoirse ran into her arms. “We've got to help Aonair. He's in the river.”

“Shhh.” Alyse put a gentle finger over Saoirse's lips. “The boy was found. He's alive.”

Alyse carefully shut the still-open door behind her. “Come away from the door.” But no sooner had Alyse closed the door than a knock sounded upon it.

Alyse opened the door to see Murtagh. “Time for your lessons, Miss Saoirse,” he said.

Throughout the day, Murtagh stared at Saoirse, and Saoirse stared back, because around his head, in the dull, diseased, gray-brown cloud that frequently lingered, a single thread of silver glittered. Saoirse tried not to watch it, but it sparkled so prettily.

Long after Saoirse was abed and asleep, Lord Togair sent for Seer Murtagh. “He was found in a river.”

“Yes.”

“You don't find that strange?”

Murtagh carefully appeared confused. “Strange? How?”

“Did you know that they were born on the same day?” Lord Togair asked. “That's what the second messenger said, that the boy and his mother had been out on a picnic celebrating his birthday. That means he and Saoirse were born on the same day. Such people often have a connection, a hold over each other.”

“Surely that is only a superstitious tale told to frighten commoners.”

Lord Togair's face purpled with fury. “That boy is dragon-touched! I won't have his magic affecting Saoirse. I have sent out a decree. Aonair Laoch is suspected of using magic and consorting with dragons; he is to be shunned.”

“My lord, he is a boy of ten, and Laoch, although not a friend, is not an enemy. Perhaps you are being a bit hasty.”

“That boy,” Togair's raging voice filled the Great Hall, “got in my daughter's head! For one hundred and fifty years no one has seen a dragon in these parts. Now in the space of ten years, two dragons have attacked, and that boy is at the center of it!”

When he returned to his room in the turret, Seer Murtagh paced, stopping only to occasionally stared out the eastern window at the sea. Finding no help in the waves and the water, he looked out the southernmost window toward the castle courtyard. Even now the work to reinforce the castle wall continued—by torch light. Murtagh breathed in quick, shallow gasps. From off his topmost shelf he brought down first one book and then another, rereading words he knew all too well. Book after book he opened. Page after page he read, searching for a reason to doubt what he knew to be the truth.

Patiently, as if he was talking to a child—or a dimwitted student—he repeated the old Guild Master's words, “First list only the facts. Then review the facts and draw a conclusion.”

Murtagh sitting at his writing desk, picked up his quill and dipped it in the ink.

Saoirse was born the day the dragon came.

Nana sent for me.

Saoirse knew that young Aonair was to be found in a river.

He stopped writing. Surely, there was more. He tapped the quill against his cheek. Of course . . .

The day Nana was taken, Saoirse was found convulsing on the beach. The mage would have been manipulating magic. If it had touched the child . . .

Hastily, he reached above him, taking down one of the smallest books written by Banville. “Untutored and untrained seers often died if exposed to magic.”

He stared at his list of facts, then quickly tossed it into the fire.

“She is the magical person.” He nodded. “The dragon sniffed her out as she emerged from the womb.”

“Nana knew! She didn't send for me to protect herself; she sent for me to protect the welp.”

Murtagh broke off a piece of bread and ate it, hoping to calm his churning stomach, but it sat like a rock in his gut. Magic meant dragons; and dragons always meant death—a very unpleasant death. “But why didn't the mage take the child?” Murtagh rubbed his aching neck; he shed his clothes for bed. “It doesn't fit. That fact doesn't fit.” He lay down and got up again to drain his mug of ale, stopping with the cup raised halfway to his mouth.

Born on the same day.

Hastily, Murtagh brought down the largest of the twelve books of the seers. Within a narrow slit in the leather binding, he took out a single sheet of paper. Called the Letter of Malta, it wasn't a letter at all; it was an illustration, a gilded page created for a book, but never bound in one. Painted six centuries ago by Zyrlot, the painting showed a man and woman, naked, locked in a lover's kiss, their feet standing on the back of a dragon. Above the illustration were the words:

Eodem die nati (born on the same day)

So, they are destined to be lovers. Thousands of people mate every night. Why would the dragon attack the boy? He can't kill a dragon.

 

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