“We share a love of the land,” she said. “What resonates in Gaia, speaks through Gaia. Where are you from, if you don’t know that?”
“Leave us,” said Gwilanna, batting a hand.
The girl jumped up. “By the way, he doesn’t imagineer.”
“I said, leave us.”
Guinevere sighed and hurried out.
The sibyl picked up a twisted branch and poked the fire as if she was stabbing an old wasp’s nest. “I must intrigue you greatly, boy. Your face is full of a thousand questions.”
I straightened my mouth. “Will you answer one for me? How does ‘imagineering’ work? How can you make an object appear just by … thinking about it?” I was picturing Guinevere’s pen around the goats, but remembering that the Fain had also used the term to tell me how my tapestry had developed. From nowhere, the child’s voice swam into my mind. Sometimes we will be Agawin. And sometimes we will be …
“Tell me,” said the sibyl, “have you ever seen a dragon?”
My thoughts about the child dissolved. How should I answer the sibyl’s question? I felt the Fain coming into my consciousness again, like a timid sheep poking its head above a wall. Do not speak about Galen, they said.
But if I lied, I felt sure the sibyl would know. “I … I saw one die once.”
A piece of loose wood tumbled out of the fire. Gwilanna paused before snuffing out the fizzing embers. “Did you find fraas?”
I shook my head.
“Well, if you had, you might not be asking how imagineering works.”
“You need dragon auma to imagineer?”
“No, boy, you need to be one with Gaia. And nothing achieves that quite like a dragon.”
After a pause I said, “I honor dragons and respect the Earth spirit.”
“Then you can imagineer,” she said.
“Will you teach me this wisdom?”
“Perhaps. If you serve me well.”
“And if I don’t?” I glanced at the skull.
“Fear not, boy. I doubt you could do me nearly enough harm to warrant ending up like that.”
“Who was she?”
“How do you know it was a she?”
I looked again. I was guessing, but … “The skull is small.” And mostly undamaged, but blackened around the mouth and eyes, perhaps burned.
Gwilanna poked the fire. “Well, it’s none of your business.”
Be careful, said the Fain. Do not provoke her wrath.
But I couldn’t help myself. I sensed a curious connection to these bones, as if I’d been part of this person’s story. “Who was she?”
“I said it’s not your business.”
“What did she do to become like this?”
“She was —” The sibyl turned angrily. For one moment, I thought I saw grief in her eyes. And I was sure I’d heard a whisper from the mouth of the skull, like the swish inside a hand cupped close to the ear. “The skull … belonged to my mother,” she said.
There was a terrible, terrible coldness in her voice that half-inclined me to speak of something else. But now I had begun, I had to pursue this. “Is it a charm? Was she a sibyl, like you?”
“No,” she replied, short and to the point.
A souvenir, then? I had heard of people keeping the ashes of their loved ones after death. Was Gwilanna shading the truth a little? Could these sockets have once been filled by the actual face of her mother? The thought of it made me shudder. What kind of person, even a sibyl, kept the skull of a parent on show?
“Where was she from — your mother?”
Gwilanna thrust the stick into the fire and left it. “Why would a hill boy want to know?”
I was struggling to say. But some kind of powerful auma was drawing me closer and closer to the skull. “What was her name? Tell me her name.”
The sibyl met my gaze. “Who are you?” she growled.
Her answer came from a shout near the cave mouth: “Gwilanna! Agawin! Come quickly! Come quickly!”
“Agawin?” Despite the low light, I saw her eyes pinch.
I took note of her shocked expression, but I had no chance to question it then. I sat up sharply, triggered by Galen. All my senses were tuning to an auma source outside the caves. I had the oddest feeling that I could travel through the rocks to reach it if I tried, dissolving through the particles that held them together to reappear smoothly on the other side. But in the end, my exit was much more conventional. I simply leaped up and sprinted for the opening.
“Look!” Guinevere beckoned me to her the moment I emerged. She pointed to the sky, where an eagle was circling.
I cupped a hand above my eyes to block out the sun. “What’s it carrying?” There was something between its talons. Something large.
“An egg,” she said.
I squinted again. “How can it be? Eagles don’t carry their eggs.”
“Then there is not an eagle inside it,” said Gwilanna, who had come out onto the hillside with us.
She is right, said the Fain. They were buzzing like a nest of summer bees. The auma wave is almost too strong for us to bear.
“It’s a dragon egg,” I breathed as Galen locked onto it.
One of great power, the Fain reported.
“It’s coming down,” said Guinevere. “It looks exhausted.” She started tying up her mane of hair, in readiness to run to the eagle’s aid.
“It’s hatching,” I muttered. “The egg is hatching.”
She paused and looked across at me. “How can you tell?”
I could see it as Galen expanded my vision. Cracks were developing all over the shell. A rivulet of bright green fluid seeped out and flowed around the eagle’s foot like a vine. There was a flash of light, and for several moments the bird was lit in a halo of rapidly-changing colors. Twice it tossed its head and squawked. Its wing-beats faltered. But it didn’t drop the egg.
“Come on,” urged Guinevere. “We’ve got to help it.”
“No.” The sibyl pulled her back.
“But it needs us, Gwilanna. It’s —”
“Let the boy see to it.”
The sibyl jutted her chin. And away I went, with the breeze at my back, feeling for all the world like I might fly. I skidded to a stop a good distance from the caves. The bird flapped down, arching its golden-brown wings for balance. With another soft squawk it released the egg, which rolled against a tuft of grass and stopped. A few pieces of the shell had become detached. Through the gaps, I could see the young dragon struggling.
The eagle sensed me then. It turned and opened its bright yellow beak, warning me off with a fierce spray of spittle. Despite its fatigue, it stood up tall with its talons forward, spreading its wings to their fullest extent. The white tips of its feathers were glowing, in peace. But in the beaded orange eyes there was only conflict. It would fight to the death to protect its cargo. I understood plainly. And so did Galen.
The muscles in my throat adjusted again. The words, when they came, burned the roof of my mouth and seemed to rip the inner lining from my lungs. But they were effective. This is what I said:
“I am the spirit of the dragon Galen. Lord of Kasgerden and the land beyond. Your work is done. You will deliver this wearling to me.”
The eagle shuddered. It was almost spent. “I am Gideon,” it panted. “I have traveled far. I was sent to find shelter by the queen, Gawaine. This is her only surviving son.”
A pitiful growl bubbled up in my throat. Gawaine. I knew the name, of course, and it was clear that Galen did, too. His sorrow swept through me like a burst of rain. “Is the queen dead?”
“No,” said Gideon. “She was attacked and had to enter stasis, helped by a healing horse. One of her eggs was stolen and destroyed. Her auma has been transferred to this one….”
With that, the eagle collapsed. Once again, a strange light flashed around him. He twitched a few times and curled his toes. I put out a hand and stroked his feathers. The auma of the dragon he’d carried for so long instantly began t
o commingle with me. There was a spark inside him, absorbed from the egg. He was going to live — and he was going to transform. But for now, all he would do was sleep.
A quiet skrike turned my attention to the dragon. I knelt and sat the egg in my hands. A head had just poked out, with a jagged piece of shell still attached to it. A foot broke through, then a whipping tail. Slowly, I pulled each piece away until all that was left was a baby dragon, covered in a film of slippery gloop. It skriked again and wobbled its wings.
This is the son of Gawaine, said Galen. In his roughened tongue it sounded like this: “Guh-wen.”
And he unveiled to me the way her offspring should be named. Traditionally, in dragon culture, a firstborn son was named after its mother.
And so I called the wearling Gawain. “Guh-wane.”
And Galen approved of this.
Guinevere could not hold back any longer. She came sprinting to my side, only to have her attention divided between the little dragon and its weary guardian. Eventually, she knelt at Gideon’s side. In a craking voice she attempted to speak to him. His eyes remained closed, his wings still. “I think he’s dying, Agawin. We should take him to the caves. Gwilanna might be able to — uh-oh. This isn’t good.”
I followed her gaze and saw we had company. Along the hill, poking its snout into the air, was a large brown bear. It had a look of cheery wonder in its deep-set eyes, and massive strength in its bulky paws. It sat up tall and squinted at us. My skin tightened all over my body — the equivalent, I guessed, of a dragon’s scales lifting.
“That’s a young male. They’re trouble,” said Guinevere.
“Tell it to stay back. You said you could talk to them.”
“The old ones — the wise ones — yes. He’s curious. He could be a serious threat.”
I closed my hands around the dragon to keep him stable. “Do we run?”
“Only if you want his claws in your back.”
The bear dropped down again and padded forward.
“What do we do? We’re a long way from the caves. Why isn’t Gwilanna helping us?”
“I don’t know, but she’s never liked bears.”
“What’s that got to do with it? She’s not the one who’s about to get mauled!”
This is a test, said the Fain. The sibyl is waiting to see what you do.
The bear snorted and tossed its head. I felt Galen measuring the sway of its shoulders, judging its strength, agility, and pace. Bones began to click all around my face as though he wanted to unlatch my jaw. Surely he couldn’t make fire in me? One belch would fry my brain to my skull.
Guinevere stood up with Gideon in her arms. “We need to distract it, but my fain is still weak after making the pen.”
“Your fain?”
“A term we use when we imagineer constructs. It means … a higher way of thinking. A deeper, more focused form of concentration.”
Can we do this? I said to the Fain in me.
All living creatures are capable of it.
But? I sensed a definite “but.”
Your intent must be strong. You must form the image clearly and you must not waver.
The bear had broken into a lolloping trot. The thought of being crushed in its brawny grip was beginning to sharpen my intent well enough. A believable distraction. I had an idea. “What do they eat?”
“Huh?”
“Bears, Guinevere. What do they eat?”
“Us, if we don’t get out of here.” She backed away up the hill.
“No, I mean what’s their normal diet?”
“Berries. Any form of bright berries.”
“All right. Keep moving. If this doesn’t work, I’ll let Gawain go.”
Gawain? she mouthed.
I nodded at the dragon. Its scalene eyes had just blinked open. Amber gems in folds of green. I prayed they would never get close enough to see the bright pink lining of a brown bear’s mouth. “I know they can fly soon after birth. He’ll get away — and you can take care of him.” I stopped walking and squeezed my eyes shut.
“Agawin, what are you doing?”
“Imagineering.” I pictured a bush sprouting out of the hillside. A green bush, laden with shining red berries, glistening with early-morning dew. The Fain sharpened the image and Galen flowed his auma into it. But what made the thought materialize strongest of all was a burst of energy from the young dragon himself. I felt no physical sensation of his help, no tingling in the hands or pulsing in the head, but for one intense indescribable moment, when all of time seemed to come together and light itself seemed to bend to my will, I saw the vastness of the universe as a great sheet of energy. A limitless field of interconnected forces from which I could draw down any information I required and shape it into any form I liked: instantly.
I heard Guinevere gasp. When I opened my eyes, there was the bush, just as I’d imagined it. I had created a construct, straight out of my mind. The bear blinked twice, then with a grunt sat down to graze the berries.
And that surprised Guinevere even more. “He’s swallowing them.”
Wasn’t that the point? To make him feed? “I hope they don’t poison him.” I had given little thought to the type of berry, still less to what they might taste like.
“But that means the bush is not an illusion. It’s real. You grew something, out of the Earth. Not even Gwilanna can imagineer like that.”
I looked back at the caves. The sibyl was still there, studying me carefully.
“What do you know about Gwilanna’s mother?”
“Her mother?”
“Or the skull she keeps by the fire?”
Guinevere lifted her shoulders. “Gwilanna doesn’t talk about her mother much, though I’ve heard her mumbling to the skull at night. All I really know is her name: Grella.”
My heart thumped, making the dragon skrike. Could this be true? That the tornaq had moved me through time and space but kept me in touch with a strand of my past?
Gwilanna is Hilde’s child, said the Fain.
The child Grella took from Mount Kasgerden.
A daughter fashioned by Voss — and the Ix.
Saying nothing of this, I followed Guinevere back to the cave mouth. The Fain, having put their all into the construct, were too exhausted to comment further. But as we approached the sibyl again, she clapped her hands in silence and said, “Very impressive — for a boy who’s never imagineered before.” She rolled back Gideon’s eyelid. In the center of his eye was a vital glint. “Take it to the spring,” she said to Guinevere. “Give it water. The bird will recover. When it does, let it go. Then return here.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer inside the cave?”
“Birds do not like caves,” said Gwilanna. “Dragons, of course, are a different matter….”
Her eyes grew large as they took in Gawain.
Guinevere sighed and started up the hill. “Look after him,” she whispered, touching my arm.
“And don’t forget the milk this time!”
“I won’t.”
The sibyl turned her gaze on me. “What are you gawping at, boy?”
Her dress. It was soiled by years of accumulated dirt but I was certain now that it was not the clothing of a humble cave dweller. The garment had been made by a hand skilled in needlework. I thought back to her reaction on hearing my name and knew there was no point dancing around the truth. With a surge of boldness, I lifted my chin. “I know who you are. You were raised by Grella of Taan.”
And just as audaciously the sibyl countered, “And you, if I’m not mistaken, are the boy who disappeared after a fall from Mount Kasgerden. My mother always spoke so fondly of you, Agawin.”
So she knew. And she truly believed that Grella was her mother, a falsehood invented by Grella, perhaps, to make the upbringing easier. But did she know what part Voss had played in her birth, or of the evil that lurked inside her?
Leaning forward she sneered, “What are you, boy? A construct? A spirit? Or some other wonder?”
I did not have to answer that. Gawain threw out his wings and went hrrr! in her face.
A gobbet of spittle landed on her cheek and fizzed along one of her many wrinkles. “Little monster!” she squealed, pulling back. She rubbed her face dry and swept toward the cave. “Bring that inside. Put it by the fire. When the sun goes down it will need more warmth than you can give it.”
I looked down at Gawain. He was indeed shivering. But it would not be long before his scales began to show, before he would get the insulation he needed. Dragons grew fast, if I remembered Yolen’s teachings correctly. He might look surprisingly vulnerable now, covered in juvenile pimply skin, but in just a few days he would be battle-hardened. “Plated” was the term the old ones used.
So I did as Gwilanna instructed. I went inside and set him by the fire. Right away, he scented the stewing rabbit and leaped into the pot, devouring every chunk, using his tail to skewer pieces up. To Gwilanna’s annoyance, he lapped up all the juices as well. Then he licked his feet and isoscele clean and settled in the pot with his tail curled around him, unconcerned by the heat from the flames.
Gwilanna cussed and went to a place in the wall from which she pulled some poorly baked bread. She tore it in two and grudgingly threw one half at me. “Eat. You don’t look much like a ghost.”
“I am not a ghost,” I said to her, plainly. “Tell me how Grella died.”
“Tell me how you survived,” she snapped back. She ripped at the bread with her crooked teeth. “In my mother’s stories, you were carried down a mountain. Nothing human could escape the fall she described. And yet here you are, gladly eating my bread.”
I broke off a chunk and tried her “bread.” It tasted of mold, but at least it was food. “People speak badly of women like you. Why should I tell you anything, sibyl?”
“Impertinent whelp,” she said with a snarl, spitting flecks of bread off her ghastly tongue. “My mother always said you were an arrogant snipe. I’m surprised she searched for you as long as she did.”
That stopped my bite. “Grella searched for me?”
“A pointless quest, spurred on by your seer.”
“Yolen?” I gasped. “Yolen was with her?” So the men of Taan had survived Hilde’s potion. And Yolen, sweet Yolen, had not given up on me.