"Master,"Beherrig called when Gloroc failed to acknowledge him.
No result. The Dragon spasmed, sweeping continuously toward the shut doors that dominated the ceiling of the hall. His body slammed against the vartham, shaking the entire building once again. But the dome had been built to defend Gloroc from attack, and even his formidable physical strength had no effect. Beherrig concentrated and bespoke his master again.
The answer nearly blacked him out. "Beherrig! Aid me! It is time!"This was the rational part of the message; beneath were garbled images and hallucinations that would have been deadly if focused. The crisis had rendered Gloroc helpless. It was all the Dragon could do to coherently communicate his need. But Beherrig had been forewarned, and knew what to do. It was simply a matter of summoning the courage.
The man no longer hesitated. He swam with all the speed and stamina that his well-trained, middle-aged body could manage. His route took him directly past Gloroc. Once, a thrashing limb nearly disembowelled him, while twice the turbulence caused by the wings forced him to the side. But he won past, to the thick gold wheel that controlled the roof portal.
Beherrig braced his heels against the floor and gripped the ring, which stood as high as his chest. The spindle wouldn't turn. It was designed for the Dragon himself, and when others were occasionally called upon to use it, the duty fell to two strong men. Gloroc thrashed, and the whirlpool caught Beherrig and flung his feet out. He held on to the metal and set at it again, hoping Gloroc would regain enough composure to manage it himself but knowing that they couldn't afford to take the chance. The change was imminent; already the Dragon's gills fluttered wildly.
"I am dying,"Gloroc bespoke, and the fear he transmitted desiccated Beherrig's strength. The man despaired, barely keeping a grip on the ring.
Yes. The Dragon would die. Beherrig would die. Dreams of empire would shatter. Nothing had ever been more certain. He hung slack, arms outstretched, while Gloroc's violence stilled. For the first time in his life, Beherrig heard the whimper of a dragon.
Perspective suddenly returned. The Dragon had withdrawn into himself, freeing his servant of his psychic influence. Before he could be drawn in again, Beherrig ground his feet into the stone and strained.
The tumblers moved, picking up momentum, their engineering so perfect that, once started, they pulled their operator with them. Beherrig held on instinctively, legs trailing behind as he was pulled in faster and faster circles. He let go just in time to see the sight of his life.
The great dome split down the middle, each side vanishing into its niche. Gloroc, mentally trumpeting his elation, thrust with all limbs through the widening crack, swimming upward and leaving behind a cometlike stream of bubbles. From vantage points all across the underwater city, citizens looked up in awe at the plume racing surfaceward.
As they patrolled the tower tops of the city, sentries saw a geyser rise high above them and sprout wings. When the Dragon's exultation reached them, it knocked them to their bellies or off the air funnels they guarded into the ocean below. Gloroc glided over his throne city and felt the membrane burst inside, flooding his virgin lungs with air, shutting his gills forever. The waves heard dragon laughter for the first time in fifteen centuries.
Gloroc was an adult now, no longer restricted to the seas. Nature had removed the single greatest impediment to his ambitions. Let the sons of Alemar beware.
XXXIII
THE WOMAN KNELT AT THE EDGEof the oasis. She was naked except for a leather loincloth. Like most Zyraii, her skin was slightly copperish, but Gast could tell she was not a native. Zyraii women never went naked in public. She was dipping waterskins into the pool to fill them. Alemar stared at her breasts as they swayed back and forth over the water.
"Been a long time since you've seen that much woman?" The healer smiled.
Alemar did not react. He remained in the shade of the palms that surrounded the pool, rigidly holding the baskets which they had come to fill.
Then Gast felt it, tickling the edges of his senses. It was unmistakable. No Hab-no-ken could have ignored it. At once, the older man was in a nostalgic reverie, recalling his own apprenticeship and that potent, irresistible moment when the power manifested.
"Who is she?" Alemar asked, not bothering to take his eyes away.
"A slave."
"She is…is…"
"Yes."
They regarded the girl for a few moments. She was about Alemar's age, healthy, youthfully lean, and blessed with long, luxuriant hair. She filled the waterskins listlessly. When she turned toward them, her glance was vacant.
"What do I do?" Alemar asked plaintively.
"You will heal," Gast stated. "Come. Let's go back to the tent. You'll have to prepare for this."
The slave finished her task and lifted as many of the skins as she could carry, taking them back toward the tent of the patriarch of the oasis. Gast led Alemar in another direction.
"Now?"
"Yes," the Hab-no-ken's apprentice replied. "Is there a problem with that?"
"No, no," the patriarch answered. He glanced over at Ilyrra. His slave was churning butter. "I would be honored to do all I can. You are welcome to her." It was good luck to favor a Hab-no-ken, as any Zyraii knew. Yet he was puzzled. The last time he had noticed, the healer and his student had been engrossed in their work, boiling their concoction. This sudden interest in his slave girl had taken him by surprise. The young man did not seem, even now, particularly urgent with lust.
The patriarch shrugged. He pointed to the screened grove, his own retreat for times such as this. "Wait there. I will send her to you."
The slave girl appeared out of the fronds surrounding the tiny clearing. She stopped at the edge of the blanket on which Alemar waited, perfunctorily removed her loincloth, and sat down near him. The mottled sunlight created patterns on her shoulders; a faint breeze toyed with the ends of her hair. If not for the perpetual aloofness reflected in her face, she would have been beautiful.
"How may I serve my lord?"
"What is your name?" Alemar asked.
"Ilyrra," she said, expressionless.
"Lay here, on your stomach," he said, pointing to the center of the blanket and reaching for the small ceramic jar at his side.
She obeyed. He dipped his fingers in the jar and began rubbing the cream it contained onto her peeling shoulders and back. She seemed surprised, the first active emotion she had shown.
"You'd waste that on a slave?"
"Why not? There's plenty of it." At the moment, this was particularly true. Alemar and Gast had spent the past three days making it, taking advantage of the local plants. They had been obtaining more water for the process when they had encountered Ilyrra at the pool.
"Your master should be more careful of you. Too much exposure to the sun will ruin your skin," he added.
She shrugged.
"Talk to me," he said.
"If it would please you."
"Yes. It would."
"You are one of the strange priests they talk about – the Hab-no-ken."
"An apprentice, only. I've only been studying with my master for eight months." He finished applying the salve and sat back. She rolled on her side, facing him.
"Is that why you're not…" She gestured at her own body.
"None of the Hab-no-ken are required to refrain from sex, as far as I know."