The ravens of Darkhaven had come for him.
Such were the thoughts they cast out like lifelines to Ushahin Dreamspinner; for they were, after all, ravens. It was enough. Clinging to the filaments of their awareness, Ushahin braked his endless fall and wove of the ravens’ thoughts a net, a ladder, and fled the darkness, back to whence he’d come.
Behind him, the dragon’s laughter echoed.
The world returned, and he returned to it.
Ushahin opened his eyes and found himself lying on his back in the skiff, half-soaked with bilge water. Hung upon the sinuous length of an arching neck, the dragon’s head hovered above him, blotting out a large portion of the sky. Beyond it, he caught sight of the ravens exiting from their frantic ellipse, landing in the high branches of the palodus tree. Though his head ached like a beaten drum, Ushahin sent thoughts of gratitude winging after them. Satisfied, the ravens preened their feathers.
“The wise man,” the dragon rumbled, “does not play games with dragons.”
With an effort, Ushahin levered himself upward to sit on the bench in the skiff’s stern and rested, arms braced on his knees. A strange exhilaration filled him at finding himself alive and whole. He took an experimental breath, conscious of the air filling his lungs, of having lungs to fill with air. “True,” he said, finding the experiment a success. “But I am not a man, and I have been accused of being mad, but never wise. Elder Sister …” he bowed from the waist, “ … forgive my folly.”
“Ssso.” The dragon eyed him with amusement. “It has gained sssome wisdom.”
“Some.” Ushahin wrapped his arms around his knees and returned the dragon’s gaze. “Calanthrag the Eldest, Mother of Dragons. I am a fool, indeed. But tell me, why here, in the heart of the Delta?”
Sulfurous fumes engulfed him as the dragon snorted. “Child of three rasses, ssson of none. Not a Man, yet ssstill a man. You deny your own desire. Do you deny the power here, where Sssatorisss Third-Born arose?”
“No, Mother.” Ushahin coughed once, waving away fumes. He shook his head gravely, feeling his lank silver-gilt hair brush his cheeks. “Not the power. Only the desire.”
“Why?” The dragon’s voice was tender with cunning. “Anssswer.”
She had let him call her mother, had not denied it! No one had done as much since the Grey Dam Sorash, whose heir had castigated him. Ushahin hugged the thought to him and tried to answer honestly. “Because I despise Haomane’s Children above all else, for their cowardice in forsaking me and my begetting,” he said. “And I will not allow my flesh to become the vehicle by which they receive Lord Satoris’ Gift.”
“Ssso.” The sinuous neck flattened, its spikes lying low as the iron-grey head hovered above him. “You glimpssse the Great Pattern?”
“It may be,” Ushahin said humbly. “I do not know.”
Smoke puffed from the dragon’s nostrils as Calanthrag the Eldest, Mother of Dragons, laughed. “Then tie up your boat,” she said, “and I will tell you.”
The bark of the palodus tree was silver-grey, smooth as skin. Ushahin poled the skiff underneath its vast canopy. There was a rope knotted through an iron ring in its prow. He laid down his pole and knelt on the forward bench to loop the rope around the trunk of the palodus, securing the skiff. Mud-crabs scuttled among the thrusting roots of the palodus, and waterbugs skittered here and there on the surface of the water. The setting sun gilded the swamp, lending a fiery glory to the murky waters. Some yards away, the charred skeleton of a mangrove shed quiet flakes of ash, long past the smouldering stage. How many hours had he lost, falling through the dragon’s mind?
It didn’t matter.
Overhead, the first pale stars of twilight began to emerge and the ravens of Darkhaven fluffed their feathers, settling on their perches and calling to one another with sleepy squawks. All was quiet. in the Delta, and at its heart, a pair of yellow-green eyes hung like lanterns in the dimness, hinting at the enormous bulk beyond. Ushahin gave one last tug on the bilge-sodden rope, and smiled. “Mother of Dragons.” He bowed to her, then sat, feeling the skiff rock a little beneath his shifting weight. “I am listening.”
“In the beginning,” said Calanthrag the Eldest, “there was Urulat …”
“Pull!” Speros shouted.
The Gulnagel groaned, hauling on the ropes. They were heroic figures in the red light of the setting sun, broad backs and shoulders straining, the muscles in their bulging haunches a-quiver. The chunk of rock they labored to haul moved a few paces on its improvised skid, built of a dented Fjel buckler and rope salvaged from the Well. It hadn’t been on a pulley, either; just a straight length of it, impossible to draw. He’d had to send one of the Fjel back down the Well to sever it and retrieve as much as was possible.
“Pull!” Speros chanted. “Pull, pull, pull!”
With grunts and groans, they did. It moved, inch by inch, grinding across the hard-packed sand. He joined his efforts to theirs at the end, rolling it manually to the lip of the Well. It wasn’t easy. The standing monoliths of Stone Grove had shattered when toppled, but even the pieces into which they had broken were massive. Atop the mound of the Well, Speros stood shoulder to shoulder with the Gulnagel, heaving.
“All right, lads,” he panted, loosening the rope with dirty fingers. “Now push.”
It fell with a satisfying crash, landing only a few yards below. Their long labors showed results at last; the shaft of the Well was well and truly clogged. Speros flopped onto the cooling sand, giving his aching muscles a chance to recover.
“More, boss?” One of the Gulnagel hovered over him.
“A few more, aye.” With difficulty, Speros rose, gathering the rope. It was vine-wrought, but sturdy beyond belief. Those poor old Yarru had woven it well. “One more,” he amended, weaving toward a distant boulder. “Bring the skied.”
Stout hearts that they were, they did. He helped them lever the next rock onto the concave buckler and wrapped the rope around it, securing the boulder in place, lashing it to the handles. “Once more, lads,” he said encouragingly, helping the Gulnagel into harness. “Remember, push with the legs!”
One grinned at him, lowering his shoulders and preparing to haul. Freg was his name; Speros knew him by the chipped eyetusks. that gleamed ruddily in the sunset. There were marks on his shoulders where the rope’s chafing had worn the rough hide as smooth as polished leather. “You drive a team hard, boss.”
“Aye, Freg.” Speros laid a hand on the Fjel’s arm, humbled by his strength and endurance. Never once, since the Marasoumië had spat them out, had he heard one complain. “And you’re the team for it. Pull, lads, pull!”
Groaning and straining, they obeyed him once more. Taloned feet splayed, seeking purchase on the churned sand. Yellowed nails dug furrows on top of furrows, strong legs driving as the Fjel bent to the harness, and the buckler moved, iron grating and squealing as it was dragged across the desert.
How many times had they done this? Speros had lost count. It had seemed impossible on the first day. Boulders were like pebbles, dropped into the Well of the World. On the first day they had merely fallen an impossible distance, shattering, dispersing fragments into the cavern of the dead Marasoumië. He had been uncertain that the Well could be blocked. It had taken all his cunning to achieve it; rigging the skid, utilizing the full strength of the Fjel, moving the largest pieces first.