The Dragon Book (26 page)

The author continued.

He hesitated, as though expecting some argument or annoyed comment from the dragon, but it only nodded in agreement. “True enough. We love music, but not one of us can sing a lick. Go on.” Its voice was surprisingly slow and thoughtful, and—so it seemed to Guerra—almost dreamy.

He paused again and looked up at the dragon. “You won’t mind if I make you a little bit smaller? Just for the sake of the hovering?”

With a graciousness that Guerra would never have expected, the dragon replied, “You’re the artist—do as you think best.” After a moment it added, a bit shyly, “If you wanted, you could do something with my crest. That would be all right.”

“Easy. Might touch up your scales some, too—nobody’s quite as young as they used to be.” He worked on, still reading softly, as much to himself as to them. What struck Guerra most forcefully was that his was very nearly the only voice in the crowded darkness, except for one of the small boys—“Dragons
eat
people! He eat those men
up
!”—and the roller-skating girl sighing to a boy who had joined her, “This is
so
cool …” Guerra gestured at them all to move back, but no one appeared to notice. If anything, they seemed to be leaning in, somehow yearning toward the magnificently menacing figure that loomed over the man who still sat tailor-fashion, telling it a story about itself.

To Guerra’s astonishment the dragon appeared not only somewhat smaller, but younger as well. Before his eyes, slowly but plainly, the faded greenish-black scales were regaining their original dark-green glitter, and the tattered crest and drab, frayed wings were springing back to proud fullness. The dragon rumbled experimentally, and the fire that lapped around its fangs—like the great claws, no longer worn dull—was the deep red, laced with rich yellow, that such fire should be. Guerra stared back and forth between this new glory and the ballpoint pen on the Betty Grable notebook, and no longer wished to have switched shifts with Officer Levinsky.

But beyond such wonders, the most marvelous change of all was that the dragon was beginning to fade, to lose definition around the edges and grow steadily more transparent until Guerra thought he could see his car through it, and the lights of houses across the street, and the rising moon. After a moment, though, he realized he was wrong. The lights were plainly coming from a number of low-roofed huts that clustered in the shadows at the base of a soap-bubble castle, and what he had taken for his car was in fact nothing but a rickety haywagon. The vision extended on all sides: whichever way he turned, there was only the reality of the huts and the castle and the deep woods beyond. And one of the castle towers had a single barred window, with a face glimmering behind it ….

“Yes,” said the dragon. For all its increasing dimness, its voice had grown as powerful and clear as a mountain waterfall. “Yes … yes … that was just how it was.
How it is …
”

The sense of one common breath being drawn and exhaled was abruptly broken by a soft wail, “Dragon gone!” and the little boy in the Batman pajamas suddenly shrugged free of his mother’s grip and came racing across the street and the lawn.
“Dragon gone!”
Guerra made a dive for him, but missed, and was almost trampled by the boy’s father. The whiskey-faced Santa Claus came charging after.

With the persistence and determination of a rabbit heading for his hole, the boy shot between several sets of legs straight for the splendid shadow that was fading so swiftly now. He tripped, skidded on his seat and looked up at the mighty head and neck, wings and crest, fading so swiftly against a sky of castles and stars. “Dragon gone?” It was a forlorn question now.

The head came slowly down, lowering over the boy, who sat unafraid as the dragon studied him lingeringly. Guerra remembered—shadow or no shadow—the dragon’s comments on the heart-melting tastiness of children. But then the boy’s father had him in his arms and was sweeping him off, darkly threatening to sue
somebody
, there had to be
someone
. And the dragon was indeed gone.

The castle was gone too; and so, in time, went most of the author’s neighbors, hushed and wondering. But some stayed a while, for no reason they could have explained, coming closer to the house merely to stand where the dragon had been. Several of those spoke diffidently to the author; Guerra saw others surreptitiously pluck up grass blades, both burned and untouched, plainly as souvenirs.

When the last of that group had finally wandered off, the author closed the notebook, capped the pen, stood up, stretched elaborately and said, “Well. Coffee?”

Guerra rubbed his aching forehead, feeling the way he sometimes did when, falling asleep, he suddenly lunged awake out of a half-dream of stumbling down a step that wasn’t there. He said feebly, “Where did he go?”

“Oh, into that story,” the author answered lightly. “The story I was making up for him.”

“But you didn’t finish it,” Guerra said.

“He will. It’s
his
fairy-tale world, after all—he knows it better than I do, really. I just showed him the way back.” The author smiled with a certain aggravating compassion. “It’s a bit hard to explain, if you don’t—you know—
think
much about magic.”

“Hey, I think about a lot of things,” Guerra said harshly. “And what I’m thinking about right now is that that wasn’t a real story. It’s not in any book—you were just spitballing, improvising, making it up as you went along. Hell, I’ll bet you couldn’t repeat it right now if you tried. Like a little kid telling a lie.”

The author laughed outright, and then stopped quickly when he saw Guerra’s expression. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. You’re quite right, we’re all little kids telling lies, writers are, hoping we can keep the lies straight and get away with them. And nobody lasts very long in this game who isn’t prepared to lie his way out of trouble. Absolutely right.” He regarded the ruined strip of lawn and winced visibly. “But you make the same mistake most people do, Officer Guerra. The magic’s not in books, not in the publishing—it’s in the
telling
, always. In the old, old telling.”

He looked at his watch and yawned. “Actually, there might
be
a book in that one, I don’t know. Have to think about it. What about that coffee?”

“I’m off duty,” Guerra said. “You got any beer?”

“I’m off duty too,” the author said. “Come on in.”

International bestseller Diana Gabaldon is a winner of the Quill Award and of the RITA Award, given by the Romance Writers of America. She’s the author of the hugely popular Outlander series of time-travel romances, including
Cross Stitch, Dragonfly in Amber, Voyager, Drums of Autumn, The Fiery Cross,
and
A Breath of Snow and Ashes.
Her historical series about the strange adventures of Lord John includes the novels
Lord John and the Private Matter, Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade,
a chapbook novella,
Lord John and the Hell-Fire Club,
and a collection of Lord John stories,
Lord John and the Hand of Devils.
She’s also written a contemporary mystery,
White Knight.
Her most recent book is a new Outlander novel,
An Echo in the Bone.
A guidebook to and appreciation of her work is
The Outlandish Companion.

Samuel Sykes is a relatively new author, having just been unleashed from Northern Arizona University. “Humane Killer” is his first publication worth mentioning and, he hopes, the first of many. Born in Phoenix, Arizona, he now lives in Flagstaff, Arizona.

Here they join forces to describe an unlikely and accidental alliance between some very ill-assorted characters who find that they all have a common problem to solve—if they
can.

“SIR Leonard of Savhael is his name!”

The young woman held her breath and was relieved to see that the crowd, for the moment at least, had stopped what they were doing and directed eyes in various states of bleariness and crustiness up toward her.

“And he is, without a doubt,” she spoke rapidly, “the greatest of the Unanointed to have ever set foot back into the lands of civilized men!”

The crowd shifted. Lips, occasionally decorated with warts, twisted into collective frowns at the mention of an Unanointed. She cleared her throat, bracing herself for their next reaction.

“And while he is not pure enough to carry a mace”—she spoke louder to be heard over the disapproving moans—“his sword has spilled more heathen blood upon sand, stone, or stream than
any
instrument, blunt or otherwise!”

A few stern nods from old men, most likely veterans, brought her a little hope. She straightened herself up as much as she could and spoke a little louder.

“He has never set foot in any house of God”—she winced at their angry roar—“
for the blood crusted there is so thick that it can never be washed from his boots!
” She smiled, emboldened, at their morbid chuckles. “He swears to God with as much piety as any man of cloth and steel, but never once has passed judgment upon another, so humble is he.”

They quirked a collective brow at that; she bit her lower lip. Such an expression was not what she had hoped to inspire.
Finish it now,
she told herself,
end on a high note.

“And so, I urge you, my dear friends”—she spoke as loudly and clearly as she could—“to consider
his
judgment, for he is so pure and clean that you
cannot
hear him vouch for me and yet remain convinced of my guilt!”

The chaplain inclined his head to her, his powdered wig and sagging features drooping in a depressing display of age. He glanced to the altar boy beside him, who merely stared at her blankly. Slowly, white brow quirked, the chaplain turned to the crowd and, unhurriedly, spoke.

“And what say
you
to this fevered plea, good gentlemen?”

The old men glanced to the women, who looked to the old men with equal confusion.

For such a decision, they would have surely looked to the young men. The young men, with their strong hearts and minds shaped by God’s grace, would look to
her
. They might nod sagely and suggest that they discuss the matter more earnestly. Or, even better, they might take one look at her face, unscarred and fair, and escort her to the nearest alehouse.

Of course, she noted grimly, there were no young men left in the village. There were plenty of elderly and likely plenty of
dead
young men buried in the churchyard, but the living ones had undoubtedly followed their precious Crusade south.

That left the women.
No one ever listens to the women.

Thus, it was no great surprise that it was one of the old men who raised both his voice and a withered fist to the sky.

“
BURN HER!
”

“
BURN HER!
” the cry was taken up, even by the children. “
BURN THE WITCH!
”

“Oh,
come on!
” Armecia screamed back at them. She yearned to hurl one of the faggots heaped at her feet, but she supposed that was why they had bound her to a stake. “I didn’t even
do
anything!”

“Lies!” one of the women, so sagging with age as to suggest she was more melted candle than woman, roared. “You used your black magic upon me gran’daughter!”

To prove this, she tugged at the wrist of a young, fair-haired girl and shoved her to the fore of the crowd. The girl, apparently more befuddled than enraged, looked up at Armecia with a blank face, perfectly smooth and bright with a healthy pink.

“She was scarred with the pox just this morning! One hour away from me sight, and I’ve got
this
!” The woman seized her granddaughter by the cheeks and shook roughly. “
This!
Smoother than her arse was when she was born!” She leveled a finger and a yellow-toothed snarl at Armecia. “Witchcraft!
Heathenry!
”

“Are you serious? How can you be upset at your grandchild being cured of disease?” She gritted her teeth so hard they threatened to crack. “What makes you think
I
did it, anyway?”

“You’re the only foreigner here,” the woman said, extending her arms to the crowd. “Everyone else is a decent devotee of the lord and His Order.”

“Everyone, huh?” With no free hands to point, Armecia gestured to the old woman with her chin. “When was the last time you were at church? Maybe
you
used some kind of magic on her and are trying to foist the guilt on
me
.”

She had to force herself to keep from smiling at the offended look of the woman. She had to strain much harder to keep an elated giggle behind her lips when the crowd parted warily, turning dozens of suspicious gazes upon the accuser.

“Oh, you can’t be seriously considering this,” the woman grunted, placing meaty hands on hips.

“Witchcraft, Goodie Andor, is a very serious matter.” The chaplain stroked both his chins contemplatively. “Even the curing of a dreadful disease is but a ruse covering a far more dreadful taint. If we let but one”—he held up a finger—“bride of the Devil into this sanctuary of the lord’s people, it will infect far more than mere children.”

“So say we all.”

The crowd’s heads went low in what Armecia thought of, but did not comment upon, as being curiously similar to a mass of hens upon a heap of grain.

As they made a unified sign of the Cudgel, it was with a grim smile and dozens of furious scowls, respectively, that Armecia and the folk noted Goodie Andor make the blessed gesture just a fraction slower than the rest.

“You’ve known me for years!” She rose up with as much righteous indignation as sagging breasts and thick legs would allow. “I’ve prayed in the house of God alongside you! I am no sorceress!”

“So she
says
!” Armecia assumed her own poise of righteousness, insofar as the ropes permitted. “Are not the Devil’s brides skilled with clouding the minds of reasonable men?”

“It is true,” the chaplain muttered, fixing a wary eye upon Goodie Andor. “It is furthermore true that you did not consider the accusation to be serious.”

“
She’s
the one trying to cloud your minds!”

“With what? Logic? Big words?” Armecia leaned back against the stake and sneered. “Let us not abandon any precaution here, friends. If she can accuse me of witchcraft, then
I
can certainly accuse
her
of witchcraft.” She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could. “In the end, there’s really no way to prove that anyone’s a witch.”

The crowd paused at that. Bony fingers scratched bald pates contemplatively. Someone broke wind, slightly less contemplatively. Another man cleared his throat, straightened up, and spoke.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “we should burn them both, just to be safe.”

“Not unwise,” the chaplain mused. “If it is God’s will that the taint be cleansed from our fair community …”

“Fair?”
Armecia looked incredulous. “How did you get in charge here, anyway?”

“The station of the chaplain is not for mere women to question,” he replied snootily, turning up a long nose. “Nor is it proper for half-breeds to show such neglect to the strongest voice of mercy.”

“That’s right!” Goodie Andor pointed at her angrily. “She’s a half-breed! Half-heathen! That
proves
she’s a witch!”

Armecia was forced to accept the verbal blow—there was simply no denying it. Her skin and hair, just dusky enough, wouldn’t have been enough to draw attention to her. Her eyes, however, one clear and blue, the other pitch-black, clearly marked her as the fruit of a union that should never have been.

She accepted the accusation but did not flinch. She had felt more than accusations, after all, in the stones that her mother’s peopled had hurled at her and the filth that they had smeared over her father’s grave. Compared to that, she thought grimly, accusations were nothing.

Immolations, on the other hand …

She eyed the altar boy standing beside her yet untorched pyre, noting with more than a little worry that the slack of his jaw was echoed in the slack of his hand.

That in itself wouldn’t be too distressing if not for the burning torch he clenched.

“What are you waiting for, Father?” the woman demanded. “Lower the torch! Burn her!”

“The torch! The torch! The torch!”
the crowd chanted, relenting only when the chaplain raised a hand.

“God preaches mercy for all civilized men.” He gestured toward Armecia. “And she, clearly, is at least
half
-civilized. Thusly, she deserves at least half a doubt as to her guilt.”

“Well, that just makes
perfect
sense,” she muttered.

“Well, where’s her champion, then?” Goodie Andor demanded. “Where’s this Sir Leonard she speaks of?”

“A fair question.” The chaplain looked curiously to her. “Where
is
this Sir Leonard of Savhael that you claim will clear your name?”

Armecia winced.

She had hoped that, upon hearing such an impassioned speech, Sir Leonard would have come galloping up to cut her bonds, pull her up onto his horse, and ride off.

After her first few statements, she would have settled for an equally fervent defense of her that would undoubtedly end in her release and a humble apology from all assembled.

By the end of it, she was desperate even to hear him break wind.

Sir Leonard, however, was not a man with a horse. Sir Leonard was not good with words. Sir Leonard was not particularly good with his sword.

What Sir Leonard
was
, was a man caked with stubble and clad in dirty mail armor, quietly pulling strips of jerked beef from a sack and munching on them as he stood toward the front of the crowd, watching the outrage unfold through red-streaked eyes.

“He”—she gestured with her chin—“is Sir Leonard of Savhael.”

“Where?” The chaplain scrutinized the crowd. “You’ll have to point him out.”

She pursed her lips, choosing to believe that he was only being ironically stupid.

“In the first row.” She tightened her hands into fists behind her. “Will my champion kindly rise and prove his lady fair’s innocence?”

The man in the front said nothing. She clenched her teeth.

“Will Sir Leonard
not
answer the demand for justice?”

His jaw moved up and down in a decidedly bovine manner as he chewed. She snarled angrily.

“
Lenny,
for God’s sake!”

To say that his eyes suddenly snapped wide open would be to overestimate his speed by a good three breaths.

Instead, like portcullises, portcullises thirty years old without the benefit of oil, his lids rose with a very slow comprehension that she might have found tedious if not for her imminent immolation. His neck moved with all the speed of a very sleepy tree as he glanced from side to side, then to her. Both eyebrows raised, he put a finger to his chest and mouthed a question.