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DRAGON DREAMS

T INTAGLIA’S WINGS BEAT frantically. Reyn clenched his eyes as the beach rushed up towards him.

The wind was gusting horribly; this was going to be bad.

As her clawed hind feet came down on the beach in a scrabbling run, her body pitched forwards.

She kept hold of him this time, her clenching claws deepening the permanent bruises that rounded his chest. He managed to land on his feet as she released him, and staggered clear as she caught her weight on her front legs.

He lurched a few steps further and then sank onto the damp sand, pathetically relieved to be on the ground again.

‘Dragons were never meant to land like that,’ Tintaglia complained.

‘Humans were never meant to be dropped that way,’ Reyn responded wearily. Even breathing hurt.

‘As I tried to tell you before we began this foolishness.’

‘Go hunt,’ Reyn responded. There was no hope in conversing with her when she was hungry. No matter what they discussed, it was always his fault.

‘I’m not likely to find anything in this light,’ she snorted. But as she gathered herself to take flight again, she added, ‘I’ll try to bring you some fresh meat.’

She always said that. Sometimes she actually remembered to do it.

He didn’t try to stand up until he had felt the wind of her wings pass over him.

Then he forced himself to his feet and staggered up the beach to the edge of a wood.

He followed what had become a weary ritual for him.

Wood. Fire. Fresh water if any was to hand, water from his skins if there was not.

A sparing meal from his supplies, now woefully low.

Then he bundled himself up near the fire and took whatever sleep he could get.

Tintaglia was right about her hunting. The short winter day had passed swiftly, and the stars were already starting to show in the sky.

It was going to be clear and cold. At least he would not be rained on tonight. Only frozen.

He wondered idly how his people were getting on with the work Tintaglia had outlined for them.

Dredging the Rain Wild River was hazardous, not just for the unpredictable winter flow of the waters, but for the acidity of it.

Those Tattooed who bought their Rain Wild Trader status with labour would have paid fairly for it.

He wondered if Bingtown had managed to remain united, and if the Chalcedeans had made any other attacks since he had left.

Tintaglia had been ruthless in her destruction of their vessels.

Perhaps just the threat of a dragon might keep them at bay.

In their flight over the Inland Passage, they had seen many Chalcedean vessels, both oared and sailing ships.

The number of them convinced him that their plans included something more significant than overwhelming Bingtown.

The ships were all moving south. They travelled as Chalcedean war clans did, with one great sailing ship for supplies and several galleys for raiding and fighting.

Once, they had flown over a smoking village, possibly a pirate settlement, raided by Chalcedeans on their way south.

Tintaglia often menaced the ships and galleys they passed, taking obvious joy in the panic she created.

The steady beat of oars faltered and failed as her shadow passed over their decks.

Men on the decks cowered while those in the rigging fled their lofty perches.

Once Reyn saw a man plummet from a mast to disappear into the sea.

Every vessel they overflew left him in an agony of doubt. Was Malta held prisoner on board that ship? Tintaglia had loftily assured him that if she had come that close to where Malta was held, she would have sensed her.

‘It is a sense you do not possess, and hence I cannot explain it to you,’ she added condescendingly. ‘Imagine trying to explain a sense of smell to someone who had none. What sounds like an arbitrary, almost mystic ability is no different from smelling apple blossoms in the dark.’

Hope filled Reyn’s heart to breaking, and anxiety clawed him daily.

Each day that passed was another day of separation from her, but worse, it was another day of Malta in Chalcedean captivity.

He cursed his imagination for how it tormented him with images of her in coarse hands.

As he bedded down near the fire, he hoped he would not dream tonight.

Too often, his dreams of Malta turned to nightmares.

Yet trying not to think of her as he was dozing off was like trying not to breathe.

He recalled the last time he had beheld her.

Heedless of all propriety, they had been alone together, and he had held her in his arms. She had asked to see his face, but he had refused her that.

‘You can see me when you say you’ll marry me,’ he had told her.

Sometimes, in his dreams, when he finally held her safe in his arms, he foolishly allowed her to lift his veil.

Always, she recoiled in horror and struggled from his embrace.

This would not do. He would never fall asleep with such thoughts.

He recalled instead Malta at a window, looking out over Trehaug while he drew a brush through her thick, black hair.

It was like heavy silk in his gloved fingers, and the fragrance of it rose to his nostrils.

They had been together, and she had been safe.

He slipped one of her honey drops into his mouth and smiled at the sweetness.

He was skimming sleep when Tintaglia returned.

She woke him, as she always did, by adding too much fuel to his fire.

In what had become a habit, she lay down beside him, between his body and the night.

The curve of her body trapped the warmth of the fire around him.

As the logs she had dropped on the fire warmed and then kindled, Reyn dropped deeply into slumber.

In his dream, he once more drew a brush down the shining length of her hair, but this time she stared out over the bow of a ship as he did so.

The night was clear and cold. Stars shone sharply above her, piercing the winter night.

He heard the snap of canvas in the wind.

On the horizon, the black shapes of islands blotted out the stars, glittering stars that swam as she looked up at them, and he knew that tears stood in her eyes.

‘How did I ever come to be so alone?’ she asked the night.

She lowered her head and he felt the warm drip of tears down her cheeks.

His heart smote him. Yet, in the next instant his chest swelled with pride in her as she lifted her head once more, her jaw set in determination.

He felt her draw a deep breath, and stood with her as she squared her shoulders and refused to surrender to despair.

He knew in that instant that he desired nothing more than to stand at her side.

She was no cooing dove of a woman to be sheltered and protected.

She was a tigress, as strong as the wind that swept her, a partner a Rain Wild man could depend on.

The strength of his emotion rushed out and wrapped her like a blanket.

‘Malta, my dear, my strength to you,’ he whispered. ‘For you are my strength and my hope.’

She turned her head sharply to his words. ‘Reyn?’ she asked the night. ‘Reyn?’

The hope in her voice jolted him awake. Behind him, sand and stone rasped against Tintaglia’s scaled body as she stirred.

‘Well, well,’ she said in a sleepy voice. ‘I am surprised. I thought only an Elderling could dream-walk on his own.’

He drew a deep breath. ‘It was like sharing the dream-box with her. It was real, wasn’t it? I was with her, as she stood there.’

‘It was definitely a sharing with her, and real. But I do not know what you mean by a dream-box.’

‘It is a device of my people, something lovers occasionally use when they must be apart.’ His words trickled to a halt.

He would not mention that such boxes worked because they contained a minute amount of powdered wizardwood mixed in with potent dream-herbs.

‘Usually, when lovers meet in such dreams, they share what they imagine. But tonight I felt as if Malta were awake but I was with her, in her mind.’

‘You were,’ the dragon observed smugly. ‘A pity you are not more adept at such dream-travel. For if you were, you could have made her aware of yourself, and she would have told you where to find her.’

Reyn grinned. ‘I saw the stars. I know the heading her ship is on. And I know that she was not in pain, nor confined in any way. Dragon, you cannot know how heartening that is to me.’

‘Can’t I?’ She laughed softly. ‘Reyn, the longer we are in proximity, the thinner the barriers between us will grow. The Elderlings who could dream-walk were all dragon-friends. I suspect your new-found ability has the same source. Look at yourself. Daily you take on more of my aspects. Were you born with copper eyes? I doubt it, and I doubt even more that they ever glowed as they do now. Your back aches with your growth. Look at your hands, at the thickening of the nails that mimics my claws. Even now, the firelight dances on the sheen of scales on your brow. Even encapsulated in our cocoons, my kind left its marks on yours. Now that dragons are awake and walking in the world once more, those who claim friendship with us will wear the badges of that association. Reyn, if you find a mate, and if you can father children, you will get the next generation of Elderlings.’

Her words took his breath away. He sat up, gaping at her.

She stretched her fearsome jaws wide with amusement and spoke in his mind.

Open your thoughts to me. Let me see the stars and islands that you glimpsed.

Perhaps I may recognize something. Tomorrow, we resume our search for a woman worthy to be mother to Elderlings.