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Authors: Stephen Deas
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despairingly about the eyrie.
‘You know he is.’
‘We could …’ He drew the venomous Starknife from his belt. Zafir backed hastily away. The thousand eyes of its golden hilt seemed to watch and follow her. Patterns swirled its ghostly blade into shapes and forms of madness, faces flirting on the edge of recognition and then dissolving into chaos.
‘No.’ Zafir shook her head. ‘We tried that once. We both know better now.’
‘But I told you: he’s weak from crossing the storm-dark. Last time … perhaps we waited too long?’
Zafir shook her head. Blind hope was all the Crowntaker had left.
‘Then tell your dragon to eat me!’
She kept her distance, watching him, eyes for nothing else, waiting for the first warning of silver light, of the Black Moon inside. ‘My dragon isn’t here, and none of them would dare to touch you. You know that.’
The Crowntaker came closer. Zafir backed steadily away at first, but he kept on coming. Eventually she stopped and let him close. Too close.
‘What do you want from me?’ she asked.
‘I want to be me.’ His hand shot out, snatching for one of the bladeless knives on Zafir’s belt. He was too quick for her to stop him, but she caught his hand as he drew out the blade and clamped his wrist, keeping him from turning its edge on himself. ‘It won’t work,’ she snapped. ‘I already tried that too, don’t you remember? And I don’t want to lose that knife.’
‘I want to be free.’ He was stronger than her. Not by much, but he was, and more desperate too. He turned the blade slowly towards his own throat.
Zafir snarled at him. ‘It won’t work !’
They stared at one another. He wouldn’t back down, so in the end she let go.
‘You know it won’t work,’ she said again. ‘But if you absolutely must make him angry, be far away from here when you do. I want no part of it.’
‘You’re the only one he listens to!’ The Crowntaker bared his teeth, and Zafir laughed in his face. The Black Moon pretended to listen but he didn’t, not really, just followed whatever whim of the moment most piqued his fancy. She was so much dust to him, like everyone else.
The Crowntaker gave back her knife. As she took it, he offered the Starknife too. She took that as well, and watched him pick his way down the gentle outer slope of the dragon-yard wall and out to the eyrie’s rim. He kept on walking, right to the eyrie’s edge and off, vanishing with the falling rain. She watched him go and thought of throwing the Starknife over the edge after him, but she didn’t. There wasn’t much point. They’d danced this dance before, and petulance only made it worse.
She called to the dragons that remained instead, and told them to take the eyrie’s chains and head for Farakkan. They obeyed her because the Black Moon had told them that they must. She didn’t know what would happen if the Crowntaker did actually die, but she imagined that the dragons would probably eat her the first chance they got. And it didn’t bother her, because the Crowntaker wouldn’t die, not today. The Black Moon wouldn’t let him.
Over Farakkan Halfteeth lowered cages and hauled Tuuran and his men to the rim. They had a few new faces, a handful of feral survivors of the dragon terror. Farakkan, built on mud and flooded every spring. It was a wonder that Tuuran had found anyone at all; but he had, and he came out of the cages and knelt in front of her, the old rituals kept alive even though they both had more pressing things to do. She patted his shoulder and moved on, and in her face he must have seen the torment the Crowntaker carried to anyone he touched. He winced and asked her with his eyes: What happened, what was it this time?
‘He’s gone again,’ she said. ‘Over the edge.’ Tuuran simply nodded.
With the cages empty, Zafir turned for the Pinnacles, for home, while Tuuran set about clearing the dragon yard. There wasn’t much they could do about the headless dragon
‘You know he is.’
‘We could …’ He drew the venomous Starknife from his belt. Zafir backed hastily away. The thousand eyes of its golden hilt seemed to watch and follow her. Patterns swirled its ghostly blade into shapes and forms of madness, faces flirting on the edge of recognition and then dissolving into chaos.
‘No.’ Zafir shook her head. ‘We tried that once. We both know better now.’
‘But I told you: he’s weak from crossing the storm-dark. Last time … perhaps we waited too long?’
Zafir shook her head. Blind hope was all the Crowntaker had left.
‘Then tell your dragon to eat me!’
She kept her distance, watching him, eyes for nothing else, waiting for the first warning of silver light, of the Black Moon inside. ‘My dragon isn’t here, and none of them would dare to touch you. You know that.’
The Crowntaker came closer. Zafir backed steadily away at first, but he kept on coming. Eventually she stopped and let him close. Too close.
‘What do you want from me?’ she asked.
‘I want to be me.’ His hand shot out, snatching for one of the bladeless knives on Zafir’s belt. He was too quick for her to stop him, but she caught his hand as he drew out the blade and clamped his wrist, keeping him from turning its edge on himself. ‘It won’t work,’ she snapped. ‘I already tried that too, don’t you remember? And I don’t want to lose that knife.’
‘I want to be free.’ He was stronger than her. Not by much, but he was, and more desperate too. He turned the blade slowly towards his own throat.
Zafir snarled at him. ‘It won’t work !’
They stared at one another. He wouldn’t back down, so in the end she let go.
‘You know it won’t work,’ she said again. ‘But if you absolutely must make him angry, be far away from here when you do. I want no part of it.’
‘You’re the only one he listens to!’ The Crowntaker bared his teeth, and Zafir laughed in his face. The Black Moon pretended to listen but he didn’t, not really, just followed whatever whim of the moment most piqued his fancy. She was so much dust to him, like everyone else.
The Crowntaker gave back her knife. As she took it, he offered the Starknife too. She took that as well, and watched him pick his way down the gentle outer slope of the dragon-yard wall and out to the eyrie’s rim. He kept on walking, right to the eyrie’s edge and off, vanishing with the falling rain. She watched him go and thought of throwing the Starknife over the edge after him, but she didn’t. There wasn’t much point. They’d danced this dance before, and petulance only made it worse.
She called to the dragons that remained instead, and told them to take the eyrie’s chains and head for Farakkan. They obeyed her because the Black Moon had told them that they must. She didn’t know what would happen if the Crowntaker did actually die, but she imagined that the dragons would probably eat her the first chance they got. And it didn’t bother her, because the Crowntaker wouldn’t die, not today. The Black Moon wouldn’t let him.
Over Farakkan Halfteeth lowered cages and hauled Tuuran and his men to the rim. They had a few new faces, a handful of feral survivors of the dragon terror. Farakkan, built on mud and flooded every spring. It was a wonder that Tuuran had found anyone at all; but he had, and he came out of the cages and knelt in front of her, the old rituals kept alive even though they both had more pressing things to do. She patted his shoulder and moved on, and in her face he must have seen the torment the Crowntaker carried to anyone he touched. He winced and asked her with his eyes: What happened, what was it this time?
‘He’s gone again,’ she said. ‘Over the edge.’ Tuuran simply nodded.
With the cages empty, Zafir turned for the Pinnacles, for home, while Tuuran set about clearing the dragon yard. There wasn’t much they could do about the headless dragon
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