Thirty
All Zee knew of the Cave of Dreams was the little Vivian had told him. Dreamshifters were summoned here on the day they came into their power and were given a dreamsphere by the Guardian of the Cave. Vivian’s voice had softened into near reverence when she spoke of it, and she would say no more than that.
Now, standing on the threshold, he had no idea what to expect. His senses told him that magic had been at work here. No natural forces—water, or fire, or even wind-driven sand—could burnish stone into a mirrored surface like the one on which he stood. But magic or no magic, the only way to reach the Black Gates led through this cave and he was going to have to enter it.
He drew his sword, testing his right arm. The wound was healing but not yet strong enough. The left hand would have to do. In the pocket of his jeans the stone knife of the sorceress weighed heavy. The blade shone in his mind’s eye, lethal and hungry, the color of blood already spilled, but he pushed the thought of it away. The sword he trusted; the knife he did not. He would carry it until he had the opportunity to bury it in the heart of the enchantress, and that would be an end.
Taking a deep breath, he turned and entered. A dim light for which he could find no source allowed him to see that the walls and roof appeared to be formed by natural forces, much like any other cave. Only the floor was polished smooth as glass.
He had walked for several minutes before he felt the cave repelling him, the way one magnet will push another away when the poles are not aligned. He pressed on, becoming aware a few steps later of a faint vibration.
At first he felt it under the soles of his feet, then on the skin of his face, and soon every surface of his body crawled with a low-level trembling. A few more steps and the vibration emerged as sound, an off-key, discordant chiming that scraped through his eardrums and assaulted his brain. A warning. Go back. You are not welcome here.
At the edges of his vision something moved. He froze, forcing himself to breathe to his own rhythm against the torment of the uneven vibration, trying to see into the dark. Lights flickered ahead—blue, green, violet, crimson—and all of the possible myriad shades between, flashing in time with the unbearable sound. Each burst of light stabbed into his eyeballs like a red-hot needle; the sound tore at his eardrums.
All of it intensified as he pushed on; only a very little more and his cells would burst under the onslaught, splattering his body over the cave as red mist. A sticky wetness tracked from his ears down onto his neck; an exploring hand came away wet with blood.
Still he moved forward, one step at a time. There was nothing to be gained by going back.
Without warning, the cave opened into a high-ceilinged chamber, illuminated by an array of flickering lights, emanating from small round spheres covering the floor. A moment later he realized these objects also created the sound. At the center of the cavern they rose into a great rounded heap. A massive shadow draped over the top of that mountain of spheres.
Tormented by the vibration and the noise, unable to see clearly in the infernally strobing light, Zee tightened his grip on the sword and moved forward one cautious pace at a time. As he shifted his position the shadow came into focus all at once: a huge horned head with blankly staring eyes, black blood pouring from its nostrils. Where the blood struck the spheres a steam went up, hot and acrid, further obscuring his vision.
One less dragon in the world was cause for joy, but it was newly dead, which meant a dangerous predator couldn’t be far away. Wary, he approached the dead creature, taking in as many details as the erratic light, the steam, and the constant onslaught of pain allowed.
As he waded through the spheres the sounds altered as they moved and he gave them closer attention. Dreamspheres, he realized in awe. The entire chamber was full of them. Around the body of the dead dragon they looked different, opaque. Some of them had turned black. Cautious, but curious, he reached out and picked one up between thumb and forefinger. It burned with a freezing cold, disintegrating at his touch into fine black sand. An acrid, bitter smell hung in the air.
Sorcery. He had time to think the word before a shadow warned him of something moving on the far side of the mound. Light as a cat, Zee stepped sideways and back, careful where he placed his feet on the slippery, rolling surface.
Around the curve of the heap of dreamspheres, high above where he stood, a horned head appeared, great green-gold eyes darting this way and that, sometimes spinning, as though following the movement of things he couldn’t see. Zee held his breath, froze his body into stillness, and the eyes passed over him without awareness.
Another dragon, this one alive and on the prowl. It lowered its head, opened wide jaws and shoveled into the mound of dreamspheres. When its mouth was crammed full, it extended its long neck to swallow, and then came in for another mouthful. It shook its head and swayed, as if it were dizzy. Still, it scooped up more of the spheres. Again it swallowed.
Zee’s ready hatred flared. The creature must be responsible for the black and dying dreamspheres, for the imbalance in the cave, for the terrible cacophony of sound and sensation that was tearing his body apart. Most likely it had killed the other dragon.
He waited for the head to lower again and lunged, scrambling up the heap of spheres so he could reach the kill spot just where the jaw met the neck. Time slowed. He felt his body fighting for leverage on the shifting surface beneath him. Saw the soft, unprotected spot that he must strike with the tip of the sword. Felt the stretch and tear of his wounds as he leaped upward.
The dragon blocked him. Almost negligently she twisted her long neck aside so that the sword struck broadside to scales instead of stabbing into the soft flesh beneath her chin. The effect was like striking metal. His arm numbed from the blow and sent him staggering off balance. He slipped on the unstable surface, tumbling head over heels. The sword escaped from his numbed fingers, sliding away in a cascade of spheres.
Dragon jaws snapped at where his head had been; a wind of hot dragon breath tore at his clothing and hair.
The dragon shook its head again, its eyes unfocused and spinning. Once more it reached for him with wide-open jaws, the teeth as long as his arm, razor-sharp. Its breath smelled of molten iron, of copper, of overheated stone. It was hotter than the last blast had been, and when the creature drew back a little, sucking in air like a giant bellows, making a wind that shifted the heap of spheres on which he lay, he knew that he was done for.
The dragon was going to flame. His sword was gone. The cave offered no place to hide, no shelter from dragon fire.
Zee twisted his body upright, his hand reaching for the blade in his pocket. The thing was too small to kill a dragon, unless he could get to the eye, but it was his last and only chance. His right hand closed on the hilt, his left tore at the protecting sheath. His arm drew back as the dragon’s head stretched toward him, smoke curling out of her nostrils.
“Stop, both of you. In the name of all things holy!”
Improbable, impossible, but the dragon paused, mouth open to flame, and turned toward the voice. Zee released the knife. It arced through the air, a lethal, perfectly balanced weapon, hungry for blood. He’d been aiming for the great golden eye, but the target had moved. The blade struck where the right foreleg joined the belly, drove into the flesh, and stuck there, quivering.
Nothing more than a flesh wound, a fly bite to a dragon. Zee slid backward, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the monster, his eyes searching all the while for the glint of his sword blade. If it had been buried beneath the shifting spheres, he would never find it.