In the House of Five Dragons
1. The Road
“There are terrible beasts that lurk inside us all. Dragons, if you will, that consume and corrupt from within: greed, lust, rage, pride and fear. The Terran soul is home to monsters far worse than those of any story.”
— Utora Maesus, Carcaen philosopher
Ssssh.
Ssssh.
Ssssh.
His uneven steps whispered through the dry grass like a mother shushing her child. The long summer had turned the grass into brittle blades that snapped and crumbled at the slightest touch. Hot wind rippled the hillside and stirred the grass into dry yellow waves. A few droning bees and bright butterflies fluttered through the heat in search of the last late-season blossoms.
The man who could not remember his name crushed them all under steel-shod boots. Long, wild black hair tickled at his sweaty, windburnt neck.
Ssssh.
Ssssh.
Clank.
He stopped. The new sound dragged his gaze down in weary wonderment. The yellowing grass gave way suddenly, sliced as though by the blade of a knife to reveal the bones beneath — worn and dusty stones each cut and fitted together. They were cracked and chipped with wear.
He crouched down and trailed his hand over the hard, alien thing winding through the grass. Was it real? Whose idea was this? A scarred metal cap on his forefinger scraped unpleasantly against broken stones.
What…?
Men could lift and cut rocks, he remembered. With their hands. And lay them together to make trails that led between important things. These rock-rivers had… names. The certainty of it weighed solidly in the palm of his mind. They had names, titles that didn’t change from one moment to the next, depending upon the song and who was winning.
Real names.
Terran names.
Roads! I remember now. Terrans have to take the long way between places. They travel on roads that stretch like a great spider’s web across their land.
But where did this road lead?
The blazing summer sun pried at his sore red skin with tiny, burning fingers. With an effort, he lifted his eyes again and they stung in the bright daylight. A pale, angular smear shone on the horizon. It glittered like desire. A city, sprawling over two sloping hills and covering them like jeweled turtles’ shells. To the east, the Mazren River flowed in a slow pewter arc around the city.
A city.
Dormaen.
Home.
My home.
The nameless man braced himself against the sharp pain that he knew was coming, the searing and screaming attack that was the Shatter’s always-answer to thoughts of home. He armored his memories in bristling blades of howling rage. They would not take the last shreds of him!
But the sharp, tearing despair never came. All remained still. He felt pain, but it was only a distant, disconnected sort. It seemed no more real than the sun that burned the back of his neck or the sticky blood oozing from gashes in his numb, wooden flesh.
He lowered his streaming eyes again and staggered along the cracked road toward Dormaen.
Clank.
Clank.
Home.
Clank.
Time marched on far more evenly than the wounded man. His chin — dark with a week of stubble — sagged down to his chest, following the sun as it sank toward the horizon. His body was trembling, weak. Even fear would not rouse it. Want and longing did nothing to banish the uncomfortable gnawing sensation deep inside his skin.
What was wrong with him? He craved something. His body begged for it in an alien voice, grumbling loudly. There was something familiar about it all. He had known this feeling once, long ago, and known it very well.
Before, in ice and stone, while fire howled down on us.
His knees went suddenly soft as indecision. Finally unable to bear his weight, they buckled and he collapsed onto the road with a clatter of steel. His eyes were sticky and swollen. They fell to angry, glowering slits, and then closed completely.
Am I finally dying?
Not content with his vision, the darkness surged up from the depths and swallowed his thoughts.
The tree-tower called the Uprising tossed and creaked in an imaginary wind. It rose majestically — smooth, rough and multiform — from the arched back of a great hill that rose from glassy nothing. Great leaves, bleak-browned by age and disuse, fell and swirled like smoke rising the wrong way.
But the air of the Uprising remained still, taut with anticipation. Watching.
Waiting.
The Shatter. The Shatter. They shatter.
A serpent made of cloudy rain and stars coiled in the branches of the leaning old tree-tower, listening. The malachite nightingale perched beside it coughed sickly, shuddering loose a green fragment of stone from under his wing. It fell and bounced off another branch. It twisted into an oversized blue snowflake, then scrawled inky to the distant ground. The serpent glittered comfortingly at the nightingale.
Where’s he going, Flickerdim? asked the malachite bird.
A city. He’ll be there in a few days, thought the snake-shape.
Which city?
Home, Flickerdim decided in a flash of starlight. He’s finally going home, Stumble. To his birthplace. It’s the center of his world, even after all these years. After all he’s done. All we’ve done to him. He’s going back to the place where he left his life.
What’s he looking for there? His life? It’s old now, griped the little curiosity, Stumble, with the sulky certainty of the young.
Home never gets old, Flickerdim said.
Empty wind rattled the great forest tower again. The sky high above twisted in on itself and silent thunder boomed all through the Uprising. Under the hill, the sky remained placid, colorless. For now, the Shatter waited. They had time. Stumble flexed his stripy green wings restlessly.
Wait, wait! What’s he doing now? he asked suddenly. He fell down!
He’s sleeping, said Flickerdim. His kind does it with some frequency. It is a strange thing, a little death every night, and then rebirth when the sun rises.
When will he be done? We need him. Make him hurry!
We cannot rush him, Stumble. We must give him time.
But there isn’t time! Not for us.
All the more reason we must give him what little we have left.
