City of Dragons

Reyall

Chapter Eleven

FLIGHT

How could life go from being so right to being so wrong, so very quickly? The dragon had flown, she had hunted and killed, and then slept so deeply, slept with a full belly for the first time in days. She had wakened, chilled after her sleep and already thinking of hunting and killing again. Sintara had stood and stretched and felt, for the first time in this life, that she was not only a queen dragon but a true Lord of the Three Realms of earth, sea, and sky.

She had snuffed carefully all about her kill site to be sure she had not missed a single morsel. She hadn’t. Striding to the steepest edge of the stony ridge, she had looked down. It was a long drop. Doubt tried to uncurl inside her, but she crushed it. She had flown to get here, and she would fly to get back. Back? Why would she go back, she wondered suddenly? Back to the other dragons in their pitiful earthbound huddle? Back to an inadequate shelter and a keeper who could barely sustain her most basic needs? No. There was no reason for her to go back to any of that. She could fly now, and she could kill for herself. It was time to leave this cold place and fly to the heat- soaked sands she had dreamed of ever since she had emerged from her cocoon. Time to live as a dragon.

She had launched, springing out wildly from the ridge. With powerful beats of her wings, she had risen to where she could catch the currents of air that flowed with the river far below her. She caught the wind, her wings cupped wide, and she let it lift her higher and higher. The altitude and the freedom intoxicated her. Drawing a breath, she trumpeted a wild challenge to the gathering evening. Sintara! she roared, and she took pleasure in the fact that she heard no reply.

She circled wide over the river, tasting and smelling all the information that the wind carried to her. The first stars were starting to show in the darkening sky; the sight of them sobered her.

Dragons were creatures of light and day. They did not, by choice, fly at night. She needed to find a place to land, somewhere that offered her shelter against the night’s cold and the threat of rain. And, she realized, she should choose a place that offered an excellent launching spot. Taking flight from the ridge had been far easier than trying to lift herself from the riverside.

She had banked, intending to circle widely. But with the coming of evening, the day had cooled and the winds had risen. A current of air caught her and sent her out in a much wider spiral. Relentlessly, it had swept her out over the depth of the rushing river.

No panic, she told herself sternly. She could fly. Being over the river did not mean she was in any danger. She had pushed away her memories of battling for her life against a flash flood. She had survived and beaten the river. No fears now. She beat her wings and rose. It was not raining, and for that she was grateful, but the clear skies had brought cold with them. As the sun sank, the day was chilling and she suddenly felt the full weariness of her long day. This was her first day of flight, and bereft of the excitement of her first launch, she now felt how tired she was. Not just her wings but also her spine ached from her labors. She was aware of the effort of holding her hind legs in flight alignment with her body. Her joints ached. And then she noticed how far she was from either shore.

She turned again in another circle, and again felt the cheating wind pull her out, away from the shore and toward the river’s center. She scanned her horizons, seeking for a place to land, any elevated piece of terrain. The river spread wide below her, either shore a daunting distance away. As she circled yet again, determination flared in her. She fixed her gaze on Kelsingra and beat her wings, making straight for the city.

Almost straight. She had not allowed for her weaker wing or for her weariness. The wind pushed her; she tipped and lost altitude before she could correct. The moving air over the river seemed to suck at her now, trying to pull her ever lower. She fought it but could not maintain her course. Then, as if fate had decided to offer her a small measure of mercy, something tall loomed up from the river. It was a darker shape against the dimming landscape, and she could make no sense of it. What was it? Once, some ancestor told her, there had been a bridge there, but. . And then she realized what it was. The jutting mass was what remained of the bridge approach. It reached partially out into the river and it would do for a landing place. She fixed her gaze on it and willed herself there.

But she was tired. No matter how strongly she beat her wings, she sank lower and lower. And her shorter wing turned her, despite her best efforts to compensate. Just short of her destination, a sudden gust of wind slammed into her. It tipped her and she did not have sufficient altitude to correct her attitude. Sintara fought to rise into the air again, but the tip of one wing brushed the river and the moving water snatched it. She cartwheeled around her wingtip and slammed into the river. The surface slapped her, and then, as if suddenly admitting it was liquid, it welcomed her in. The dragon sank into the cold and the wet and the darkness. Down she went, felt her claws touch the rocky bottom of the river for a single instant, and then she was dragged along by the current. She fought to close her wings, to streamline her body so she could resist the water’s relentless drag. Her nostrils reflexively closed the instant the water touched them. Her eyes had remained open, but she saw only darkness. Kicking, clawing, lashing her tail, she fought the water.

Her head broke clear and she had a brief view of the bank. It was not far away, but it was steep and tall. The river claimed her again, resisting her effort to fight her way to the surface. She kicked steadily, trying to swim against the swift current.

“Sintara!” Thymara’s cry of anguish echoed only in her mind. Water drowned the dragon’s hearing. Somewhere, the girl was racing through the streets of Kelsingra, heading toward the river and her dragon. To do what? Save her from drowning? Ridiculous human! Yet despite her disdain for the girl’s foolishness, the act warmed her ego. She lashed her tail and was pleased when it helped push her toward the shore. Her front claws touched gravel. She snatched and scrabbled at it, and after an eternity, her hind feet found purchase, too. Another eternity passed before she fought her way to the river’s edge, and it took even longer for her to claw her way up the steep and rocky bank.

Sintara dragged herself out of the water’s reach and collapsed, cold and exhausted. She felt sluggish with the cold, two of her claws were torn bloody, and every muscle in her body throbbed.

But she was alive. And in Kelsingra. She had flown, hunted, and killed. She was a dragon again. She lifted her head and snorted water from her nostrils. When she could, she drew a deep breath and trumpeted. “Thymara! I am here. Come to me!”

Malta clasped her bundled baby to her chest as she fled. Few lights showed in Cassarick this late at night. Rain was falling again, the narrow trunkways here were slick, and terror and exhaustion had taken their tolls on her. She could feel blood trickling down her thighs, and though she knew that bleeding after birth was not unusual, every terrible tale she had heard of new mothers bleeding to death came to torment her. If she died now, if she collapsed in the dark and rain, her baby would die with her. He did not seem strong; he did not cry loudly but only wailed weakly, protesting that his life must begin in such a rough way.

She put distance between herself and the brothel and the man she had killed. She stared all about in the dark as she went, wondering where Arich had gone and if he was even now returning. If she encountered him, he would not drag her back to that place. He’d kill her and her child and then take her body back. She could not hope to fight him; she had no weapon, and she was exhausted and encumbered with her tiny son.

Down, she suddenly decided. She was completely lost, but one thing that was always true was that down led to the river and the docks. And the Tarman. Perhaps Reyn was still there, trying to persuade Leftrin to come to their rented room. It did not seem likely. She could not decide how much time had passed since they had parted, but surely it had been hours. Perhaps even now, Reyn was looking for her, alarmed not to find her in their room. Well, she did not know the way back to their room, but she did know that down led to the river.

At the next bridge she crossed, she chose the larger way and when she reached the trunk, followed the rough, steep stairway that spiraled down around it. The city seemed deserted, friendly house lights extinguished for the night. When the stairway stopped on a broad landing, she crossed on the largest bridge attached to it, and again followed a thickening branch-way until she reached a trunk with another spiraling stair. And down she went.