The anger burned darker within her, driving her on.
Gingerly the dragon waded into the water. At the place she had chosen to ford it, the river itself was not as wide as she was long, so it was only a matter of bearing up under the current, finding as solid a footing as possible in the rocks along the bottom of the riverbed, avoiding the sinkholes and crosscurrents she could feel upon entering it.
Halfway across she had a sudden flash of memory, or something approximating it.
The woman she sought had forded the river at this very place, or near enough to it to have left a trace of herself in the streambed.
The dragon’s ire burned hotter. Steam rose in rippling waves, hovering over the water in ominous clouds of hatred, palpable in their anger.
She pressed on, her taloned feet leaving great trenches in the cold mud, then pulled herself out of the river and onto the floodplain.
As she began heading north again, the air in front of her shifted, glimmering.
The dragon stopped, as if the breath had suddenly been dragged from her lungs.
The elemental power that hung in the air of the forest, invisible to the eye and unfelt by the vast majority of the living world, thinned out, crackling dryly.
The dragon struggled to breathe.
Directly in front of her a shape began to form; it was as large as she was, and vaguely the same shape, with a great horned head, a long, whiplike tail, and vaporous wings that were extended high in the air. There was the tiniest trace of copper in the scaled hide that was forming on the wind, but for the most part it was gray like the smoke of a brushfire, shimmering with an elemental sheen.
The dragon froze.
In front of her another wyrm finally appeared in solid form. A voice, deep and warm with a pleasing tone, resonated in the icy air around her.
Hello, Mother.
Anger shot through her hide; the beast’s skin dried instantly, giving off a seething glow of steam.
I am delighted, if somewhat surprised, to see that you are alive. The gray wyrm’s voice rang in a light, almost musical timbre, unmistakable in its sincerity.
Who are you? she demanded, but her multitoned voice of air quavered a bit; this being was the first to greet her with respect and fondness since she had awakened, and there was something about that fact that was both enthralling and unnerving, leaving her weak and defensive at the same time.
The blue-gray eyes of the wyrm before her widened for a moment, and it exhaled slowly.
I am your son, Llauron, your secondborn. Do you not remember me, Mother?
I do not, answered the dragon bitterly. I have no memory of you.
Sympathy came into the gray wyrm’s eyes. Ah. Well, perhaps you are just a bit disoriented. Your memories will return, and if they do not, I can help you find them. I made many of them with you, over the course of history. Sadness crept into the sympathetic gaze. Although many of those memories are probably best left unremembered.
I seek but one memory, the dragon said quickly. Help me find the goldenhaired woman.
The sadness turned to surprise. Rhapsody? Why do you seek her?
The dragon’s blood warmed instantly, her heart pounding with excitement. Rhapsody! she shouted in her draconic voice; the word hissed upon hitting the air; it echoed across the river and over the frozen highgrass, rippling with the acid of hatred. Where is she? Take me to her.
Llauron saw his error immediately. She is far from here, last I knew, he said casually, turning subtlely to the east, away from the direction of Elynsynos’s lair. And she is insignificant. Come with me, Mother; I will take you to places where we have spent time, places where we will be undisturbed, and we can chat. If you are seeking to put your memories in order—
NO! the beast bellowed; her voice tore through the winter wind, shattering the elemental vibration of it. The trees and highgrass that had been bending before the stiff breeze in supplication froze and snapped, the water in the river rippled in contrary ways. All of nature in the vicinity shuddered at the tone in the dragon’s voice. Tell me where she is, Llauron. As your mother, I command you.
The gray wyrm folded its solid wings and regarded her seriously.
Let us speak reasonably, please, he said in a sensible tone that carried a barely veiled displeasure in it. We are far from the days when you could command me by virtue of that fact, Mother, though perhaps you do not recall why. I tell you, with every ability to speak the truth that I have ever had, no one who has ever drawn breath on this earth has been more loyal to you than I. I gave up everything I treasured, everything I held dear, to do your bidding once, and it tore a world apart. My love for you should not be in question; whatever else you have forgotten, surely you must remember that.
The dragon shook her head violently. I remember nothing but the need to destroy this woman, she said bitterly. And if you love me, Llauron, you will prove it. Tell me where she is.
I cannot, the wyrm said firmly. I really have no idea. Come, Mother; let us quit this place—
The dragon reared back and inhaled, sucking much of the power from the air as she did.
In a twinkling the gray wyrm vanished into the ether, just in time to avoid the eruption of caustic fire aimed at him that ignited the frozen winter grass and set it blazing.
The beast breathed again, a red-orange flame that crackled black at the curled rims. It spread futilely on the wind where Llauron had stood the moment before, billowing waves of swimming heat that dissipated impotently after a moment.
Now fully enraged, and feeling even more betrayed than she had, the dragon stormed northward, inwardly chanting the woman’s name, tasting the air, hoping for any possible trace of it on the wind.
42
Upon exiting the cave, Achmed spent a moment turning over the firepit that Krinsel had made to warm herself in his absence, and reclaim the campsite. Then he nodded wordlessly to the Bolg midwife, who laced her boots and adjusted her winter gear, then nodded her silent readiness in return.
They had not gone more than a hundred paces from the opening of the cave when the air before them glimmered with a sudden disturbing display of gray light.
In between the gusts of wind an enormous draconic figure appeared, half-ethereal, half-material. Achmed stopped in his tracks, dragging Krinsel instinctively behind him and lowering his cwellan, the one he had shown Gwydion Navarne some months before. His instinctive reactions were instantaneous; his reasoned ones took a split second longer. Just as he prepared to fire, the picture of this particular beast flashed into his mind; he had seen it before at the Cymrian Council, curled up at the feet of Ashe, much to its son’s chagrin.
“Llauron?” he demanded, sighting the weapon.
Achmed, the familiar voice said urgently, Where is my son?
The Bolg king’s eyes narrowed.
“He’s returned to the Circle, or possibly to Navarne, to obtain a carriage to transport Rhapsody and your grandbrat home,” he said nastily.
The gray wyrm’s eyes gleaned.
The child’s been born?
“Yes,” said Achmed. “Now kindly stand aside, and don’t interpose yourself in my path again unless you want to test out my dragon-killer disks.”
No, the wyrm insisted, its anxiety causing the air around the Bolg king and the midwife to grow warm and dry. Tarry; you must help me. Anwyn is coming; she is seeking Rhapsody with a horrific vengeance. She will be here momentarily; you must help me get your friend and my grandchild out of here at once.