Dushela, dreaming
I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space--were it not that I have bad dreams.
--Hamlet
Dushela slept.
Curled into the fetal position, the tangled covers of her bed drawn up under her chin, her long brown hair disheveled with her tossing and turning, Dushela had finally managed to fall deeply asleep after a long night spent waking every few minutes. Her left hand clutched at the blankets as she dreamed.
She and Nikodemus were standing at the mouth of a cave, somewhere deep in the deserts of northern Africa. A hot wind blew, tugging at her dress, as he asked her, "Why not, Dushela? We both know that there are few matches that would be better. We've known each other for how many millennia now?"
Her red eyes blazed, the light of fury in them. "Shut up, Nik. I've said no, and that's my answer."
"But--"
She interrupted him. "No. I will not participate in anything that might result in a crossbreed being born." Her lip curled in a contemptuous snarl. "We dragons are different races from each other for a reason. You've seen the dragon Strawberon. Can you think of anything more disgusting than a red and a gold dragon breeding? It makes me ill just to think of it. No, Nik. Be happy with what you have. You'll never get any more." She turned her back on Nikodemus and walked away, out onto the rocky desert floor.
Because she was turned away, she missed the expression of deep and bitter pain that crossed Nik's face. He watched her change into her dragon form, spread her wings, and leap into the air. Once she was safely out of earshot, he muttered to himself, "If that's the way you want to play it, Dushela. But I'll be here when you change your mind." He impatiently rubbed his one eye, and then strode out himself, dark blue dragon against the delicate blue of the sky, beneath the eternal and unforgiving sun.
"I'm leaving and you can't stop me!" screamed a woman--a girl, actually, little more than a teenager, her solid red eyes almost seeming to shoot hot sparks.
Dushela sat behind her desk, regarding the girl calmly. "No, you're not, Metis. You're too young to leave home yet. There are too many things that would love to catch and kill a young red dragon. You don't know all the danger there is in the world yet."
"How am I supposed to find out, Mother, unless I go out there and learn? You keep me here in the dark, spoon-feeding me, keeping me wrapped in wool! I know I could keep myself safe, especially if I learn to hide myself among them."
"I need you here, to help me. I can't have you running off and getting yourself killed."
The girl's braids shook as she paced. "So when? When can I leave, experience the world? I've read your books, I *know* what's out there, beyond these compound walls! Tell me, when?"
Dushela's answer was a hard stare at her daughter. Then she picked up her pen and resumed writing.
Metis' mouth fell open, a look of utter astonishment coming over her face. "Never. You're never going to let me out, are you? You're going to keep me here, helping with your experiments, keeping me away from the outside world...forever."
Dushela's voice was mild. "You're mine, daughter. I'll let you know when I think you're ready to go. You are an ignorant hatchling--"
"Mother, I am seven hundred years old!"
Dushela ignored her. "--and you have no idea what it takes to survive out there. Leave it, girl. Go back to the lab." She continued to write, seeming to consider the conversation over.
Metis spun and stalked towards the door. She paused in the doorway, slipping a hand into her pocket. She turned, saying in a quiet voice, "Mother?"
Dushela looked up. At that moment, faster than the eye could follow, the girl's hand came out of her pocket and whipped a shining something at Dushela's head. Whatever it was hit her just above one eyebrow with a sickening crack, Dushela falling to land sprawled next to her chair, blood running from a deep cut on her head. Though she tried to get to her feet, she couldn't quite manage it.
The girl said, "Goodbye, Mother." She turned and ran down the hall, bursting out through a pair of doors into a courtyard. She transformed into her dragon form, her color as clear as the sun shining through red glass, and winged upwards. She circled twice, building her speed, and then with strong wingbeats threw herself at a barely visible barrier in the air. Once, twice, she hit the barrier and was repulsed, but on her third attempt slowed almost to a standstill in the air, beating her wings frantically, moving forward inches at a time.
Metis screamed, "Let me go!"
And as if in response, the barrier around her shimmered and weakened, just slightly. It was enough. The dragon broke free of it, hurtling forward and away from the compound that had held her for seven centuries. She struggled through the air, bleeding from cuts in her sides and her wings, until she'd flown some miles distant. She landed, panting, under the desert sun, her blood dripping into the rocks and pebbles that crunched beneath her feet.
She rested for a few minutes, keeping a watchful eye on the sky. And then, looking exhausted, she pulled herself into the air once more, turning northward.
Aru stood in the great hall in the center of Pedrosa, granite walls with veins of pink quartz thick as a man's wrist running through them. He looked at the brown-haired woman who was standing a few feet away from him, her claret dress standing out among the greens and browns of the room. "Yes, Dushela. It is true, I'll be married in a week's time. I had thought you might be happy for me. That is, after all, why I sent you an invitation."
Dushela's voice was flat. "Armand said you are marrying a human."
He regarded her mildly. "I am, at that. I've never made a secret of it. Do you have a problem with that, Dushela?" His voice had a bit of an edge, the very beginnings of ice creeping into it.
She drew herself up to her full height. "Do you forget, Aru, that humans are lesser beings? You lower yourself by being around them as much as you are! And to actually think of marrying one..." Her voice dropped to a hiss. "You disgust me, Aru. I had thought you were a dragon. Instead, I find, you're some sort of worm, crawling around, consorting with humans. We are better than they are. Have you forgotten?"
Aru's hand lashed out, hitting her face and spinning her around, staggering her. He stood over her, looking down at her with those unnerving blank white eyes. "Dushela. I had thought that perhaps the years had mellowed you, but it appears I was mistaken. Leave and never return here. This mountain is closed to you forever."
Dushela regained her feet, starting towards Aru. A word from him brought her up short. "Do you want to do this? Truly?"
She snarled. "Oh, yes, Aru. I do indeed think it's time for you to die."
He barely changed expression. "Really." Then spoke a word, releasing the spell he'd started when he slapped her. "Harm."
Once again, she staggered as she felt her life drain away from her. The world tilted and sparkled around the edges, and she shook her head to try and clear it. Her eyes widened as she looked at her shaking hands and realized that though she might be able to get off one spell, one more from him would kill her. She stood, waiting for the blow she knew would be fatal.
Aru shook his head. "Get out of here, Dushela. I'm busy. And don't come back." He turned and walked towards the great double doors at one end of the hall. He paused, as if struck by a thought. "I keep a stash of healing potions on a mountaintop two peaks to the south of here. Feel free to avail yourself of them. Just don't think you can come back once you're healed. Next time, I'll finish the job." He strode through the double doors, which shut behind him.
She stared at the closed doors, impotent fury on her face that softened quickly into sorrow and then, oddly, a wistful regret.
A soft voice came from behind her. "Interesting. Dushela, have you ever considered actually cherishing those close to you?"
She spun. Standing there was a figure she'd never expected to dream of--Callas de Navarre, dressed as she'd seen her earlier that day in a black dress, her hair unbound and falling around her face. "What are you doing here?" she asked, astonished.
Callas shrugged. "You looked alone at the service today. I was thinking you might want someone to talk to. But..." She glanced around at the great hall, smiling at being able to see it as it was when it was new. "It looks like you're doing just fine by yourself, talking to the dead, replaying what they've said to you. I won't bother you any more." She turned, and began to walk away.
"Wait." Dushela's voice held an odd tone. "Can you harm me, in my dreams?"
Callas looked back and shook her head. "You don't have the gift of dreaming, and you're not a dream wraith. I can show you things, but I cannot hurt you--the moment I tried, you would wake. Believe me when i say that I sometimes wish I could, but since you're an ordinary dreamer, I can do nothing." She spread her hands before her. "Lazlo might be able to harm you, but I cannot."
"Oh." Dushela seemed to turn this over in her mind. "Why did you want to talk to me?"
"Grief makes us all equals. We've both lost people we loved in the last few days. Occasionally, I find that sharing one's sorrow lessens it a bit." Callas quirked her mouth in a wry smile. "Besides, I thought I might show you something you wanted to see. But, like I said, it looks like you're busy talking to the dead. I'll leave you to it."
The dragon's voice held a note of curiosity. "Show me something? What could you show me? I know so much more than you, and obviously I'm smarter than you. I would have never let Morgan get off a spell today. Besides, you killed my Nik. And stole my Servant. I don't think I can trust you, little girl."
"There is such a thing in this world as a fair fight, Dushela. I know you don't believe in them, but we do on occasion." She shrugged. "As for those other things...Nik killed my Second. I have a history of hurting those who hurt my loved ones. The Servant was a move in this great game we're playing out at the moment, that wasn't particularly personal--on my part, at least." She looked at Dushela steadily, green eyes betraying nothing of her feelings. "I was just going to show you a little slice of the future. Flicks and flashes of what might be. But, if you're not interested, I'll just take myself away." She turned away again, preparing to leave.
"The future. Am I a god, in the future?"
Callas turned back and tilted her head at Dushela. "You'll have to make up your own mind about that. I can just show you bits and pieces, you'll need to put them together yourself. If you want to see, you just have to say so."
Dushela considered this. "All right. Show me what you came for. Though I have a feeling I might regret this."
"All right, Dushela. Take my hand." She held out her right hand, and Dushela took it. There was the shock of her cool hand touching Dushela's hot one, and then everything was darkness.
A city, stone silent, the charnel reek of corpses drifting from the houses. It is Venice, rows upon rows of houses draped with black banners--plague sign. A man rows a boat full of bodies with blackened and twisted faces across the lagoon, to the island of San Marco. Hooded and robed monks load the bodies onto a cart, which they drag to a large open pit in the center of the island.
The monks are exhausted, their bodies moving on sheer willpower alone. They pull bodies from the cart, without a word tumbling them into the pit below. To their left, more monks are working, digging another pit. It will be needed. Every square foot of earth they can move will be needed.
Once the two monks have finished unloading the cart, one asks the other, "How many does that make?"
His companion coughs into a cloth, his shoulders shaking. When he recovers, he says, "Somewhere around thirty thousand, I think. That's the sixth pit, and it's almost full."
The other monk looks back over his shoulder. "It's only June. Will there be any of us left by August?"
The other monk can only shake his head.
Dushela spat, "Humans. Good riddance."
Callas shook her head. "This is only the beginning, Dushela."
Forward again. This time, a library, a candle burning low as a young scholar, in a fit of coughing, brushes the candle with her sleeve and knocks it over onto a pile of papers. The old, old books are eager food for the greedy fire, and before the scholar can do anything, half of the shelf is engulfed in flame. The books are tinder, the wood of the structure fuel, and as the scholar stumbles out, the building is already half consumed and the fire is working on the rest.
The scholar's face is devastated as she sinks down next to some freshly dug graves. "All gone...everything..."
Dushela muttered, "What..."
"Come on."
Armand is standing in the courtyard of the temple at Madrid, speaking to Callas. "I am calling in my favor, Headmistress. My youngest brother died of the plague yesterday evening."
Callas is white with shock. "Ah, no, I'm so sorry, Armand. I will shift our resources around. I cannot guarantee we will find something, but any effort is better than none."
He nods, and turns. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Callas waver a little, and without thinking turns back and puts both hands on her shoulders, steadying them. "Are you all right, Lady Headmistress?"
She shakes her head. "Just exhausted. This damned plague. I haven't had a moment to myself for eight months now. I'm fine, Armand, and would you please remove your hands from my person?"
He backs off, for once not even attempting to press his advantage. His voice is deep and bitter. "Aru may have been the fortunate one, Callas. Better a death in battle than to be laid low by something you can't even see to fight. It is a bad death for a dragon. A very bad death indeed."
Callas' voice sounded near Dushela's ear. "There's a rough patch ahead. A lot of fragments, nothing more. Hold on." She felt Callas' hands grip her shoulders and then images began to flow past her.
Funeral pyres, thousands of them, all across Europe. The ancient halls of the dwarves, empty and silent; the gardens of the elves, reclaimed by the weeds and the wild growth. A voice, crying out, "O Dushela, Queen of Assassins, Lady of the Devourer, hear our prayer!" A red dragon and a black one locked in either passion or mortal combat, the black's sinuous form wrapped around the red's muscular one, the black's fangs buried in the red's throat, both of them falling like stones towards the ground below.
More flickers went past, too quick to see. A child's voice, asking, "Were there ever any such things as dragons, Papa?" A voice answering the child, "No, they're just myths. People made them up, long ago. They're just fairy stories, like elves and dwarves and centaurs and trolls."
And a childlike voice singing, "Ashes, ashes, we all--fall--down--"
Something shimmered at the edge of Dushela's vision, and she turned her head, trying to follow it. A male voice she hadn't heard before said, "Callas--"
"I felt it. Time to go." Her voice once again seemed to be emanating from right by Dushela's ear. "We just crossed Lazlo's path. If he finds the two of us together, we're both dead. You being with us will confuse him long enough for the trail to go cold, but it's time for you to get back to your body. Good night, Dushela. I'm sure I'll see you again sometime."
Dushela sat up in bed with a gasp. After a moment, she lay back down and pulled her knees to her chest, her wide red eyes staring into the darkness.
Callas leaned against Dream, tired from her first long excursion as a guide. Dream's arm was around her and they were moving towards home. He asked, "So what, exactly, was the point of that again? She'll never change her mind, you know. She's too old and set in her ways."
"I know. I wanted her to see some of the consequences of her actions, though. And, well..." Her voice was soft. "I do feel sorry for her, a little. She's very alone, right now. Perhaps, some day, she'll remember this night, remember that I came to her and did her something of a kindness. It's all any of us can do." She sighed. "Let's go home, Dream."
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