The Dragon of Despair (94 page)

Emerging first through the gates came six women, their long legs bare, their robes kilted up almost to their hips. The motions of their dance were those of stoop labor, the bend and toss, bend and toss so eloquently expressed that Derian found himself looking to see what they were picking.

These were followed by burly men, their coordinated arm gestures evoking the scything and binding of sheaves. They were followed by apple pickers, grape stompers, diggers working root vegetables loose from the soil. Somewhere in the course of their circling, whirling dance, Derian realized that he was seeing the same dancers over and over again, but they merged their motions into each other’s so smoothly that the entire process of the gathering in of summer’s bounty was evoked and celebrated.

Around the fringes of these workers and their complex dance skittered little children dressed in robes the colors of autumn leaves. Their costumes were so carefully constructed that Derian could tell oak from maple, elm from ash, beech from birch without even looking to see the leaf patterns block-printed on the fabric. The leaves were chased by winds in robes of silvery white touched with icy grey. Every so often a rumble just like thunder would drown out the music. Then the harvesters would increase their tempo, glancing upward, their posture so eloquent of worry that Derian found himself inadvertently checking the clear noon sky.

Gradually, the gathering of the harvest segued into a celebration of its bounty. Men hauled out a wagon laden with piles of fruit and vegetables. Over this bright treasure stood the Harvest Lord himself—dressed in girded robe, his hair the brilliant color of autumn leaves. He posed for a moment of sudden hush on a small platform suspended over the wagon’s bed; then, on this small stage, he began to dance. His motions incorporated the gathering in of the harvest, but also recalled its planting and somehow reminded the watcher of all the labor involved.

Watching, Derian forgot he had ever been afraid, caught up in the joy and wonder of what a human body could achieve—and disbelieving, even as he watched and knew it was real, what he was seeing.

Derian had seen the Healed One in person just the day before. He could recognize something of that man in the figure who towered over his subjects now, but he had to struggle to do so. This seemed no man but a vibrant force of nature.

But wonders did not end with the Harvest Lord’s dance. At a wave of Toriovico’s hand, the gathered crops in the wagon bed rose and joined him in his celebration, spilling over the sides with such effortless grace that Derian’s mind had to fight to see costumed men and women and not grain, fruits, and vegetables suddenly brought to exuberant and joyful life.

And in the midst of this, Derian spotted Citrine. She was dressed in bright red robes, the hat on her head shaped exactly like an apple. Her skills were not markedly less than those of the other child dancers in the fruit and vegetable group—though the autumn leaves that still skittered and pirouetted around the fringes clearly represented the most skilled.

Wendee’s hand closed around his arm and Derian nodded. Then he realized what they were going to have to do. To the little fruit and vegetables, possibly because their dancing was not up to that performed by their fellows, had been given the task of distributing gifts to the crowd. Like the rest, Citrine had danced back to the wagon and been given a basket containing—as Derian saw when a shy little boy dressed as a cucumber thrust a piece into his hand—miniature vegetables and fruits, molded from sugar paste.

“Spread out,” he whispered to the other three, “and try to get near Citrine. Make it look like part of the fun.”

That wasn’t as hard as it might have seemed. The reverently watching audience had evolved into a good-natured scramble for some of the candy. The fruit and vegetable children circulated through the throng, handing out their gifts and often giving little impromptu performances.

Citrine was hardly the center of all eyes, though Derian could have sworn that the Harvest Lord—though he continued his own stylized motions—was rather more aware of her than he might have been expected to be.

Knowing that the voluminous skirts of his carrot costume offered a perfect place to conceal Citrine should she resist, Derian made an extra effort to reach her. He was rewarded, coming up on her just as she was handing out her last bits of candy—and incidentally becoming even less of interest to the foraging crowd.

Derian knelt in front of her.

“Remember me?” he asked with a grin.

“You’re a carrot!” she laughed, and he swept her up into his arms.

Citrine’s outraged shriek was dismissed by those nearby as part of the fun. Derian tried to look as if he was dancing with her, whirling her in the air as he hustled her toward the edge of the crowd. His deception might not have worked, but at the very moment Derian took hold of the girl the orchestra suddenly surged into what was—even to his unsophisticated ears—a recessional.

Attention shifted back toward the Processional Gate.

I bet the Healed One was watching,
Derian thought,
and provided the best diversion he could. And I’ll bet anything that most of the crowd just figured that Citrine was my little girl and had gotten out of hand. Her costume isn’t all that much different than a dozen I’ve seen today.

“No!” Citrine squealed indignantly. “I’ve got to go back!”

She spoke Pellish, so no one understood her words, but her tone did awaken some interest. Worried that Citrine would remember to use New Kelvinese next time, Derian tried to silence her without being too obvious. Citrine took advantage of this to bite him hard on one hand.

Derian’s yelp of pain was covered by the music, but there was no way he could recover the temporary loosening of his grip. In that instant, Citrine wriggled free and in no time at all she had joined the last trailing dancers as they swept back behind the walls of Thendulla Lypella.

Derian decided that it was time he, too, retreated lest when the rehearsal performance was over some of his neighbors in the crowd decided to ask a few uncomfortable questions. He wished he were dressed a little less obviously as he found Wendee and the two of them headed back toward Hasamemorri’s house, trying hard not to hurry.

They’d become separated from Doc and Elise in the crush, but Derian was only mildly worried about them. He trusted that the pair would have made their way safely back to the house—especially as his straining ears did not catch the roar of a rioting crowd. Therefore he was relieved but not surprised when Elise—her hair freed from its coif though otherwise she was still clad in her spring onion costume—opened the front door for them.

What made Derian’s jaw drop was who waited for them inside the consulting room.

“Edlin! Peace!” Derian nearly sank to his knees in the rush of sudden relief. “You’re all right!”

Derian almost regretted the words even as he spoke them. Edlin Norwood and Grateful Peace might be present, but they certainly were not all right. Both showed ample evidence of hard use. Bruises and lacerations were visible beneath the cosmetics they had been wiping from their faces. Both Edlin’s eyes had been blackened. Peace had at least one broken tooth.

As Derian entered, Edlin set aside the rag he’d been using to clean off his own face paint. When he rose to offer Derian a heartfelt embrace—honoring the tall redhead as he might a kinsman—Derian could feel how much weight he’d lost.

But what Edlin had suffered was nothing compared with the injury inflicted on Grateful Peace. The Illuminator sat slightly slumped in a chair near the side window, passively permitting Doc to wipe away his face paint and inspect his injuries all at once.

As with Derian, Wendee’s initial joy at the return of their companions was muted when she saw what had been done to them.

“I’ll make tea,” she said, sweeping out.

Elise nodded.

Turning to Derian, she asked, “Citrine?”

He shook his head.

“I had her,” he replied ruefully. “Then she bit me.”

Holding up the swollen digit as proof, he went on, “I couldn’t very well knock Citrine out and that was the only way I could have gotten her away without her screaming herself silly.”

“I’m sure you did your best,” Elise said, but Derian couldn’t help but feel he had to explain.

“If I’d thought I could make people think she was my kid acting up,” he said, “I’d have hit her and taken their disapproval, but too many might have seen her out there dancing. What if she’d said the wrong thing? I guess I was afraid there’d be another riot.”

Elise put her hand on his arm.

“Derian, we understand, really. You at least got close to her. Doc and I didn’t even manage that.”

Derian felt marginally better.

“It looks,” he said, looking at Edlin and Grateful Peace, “that at least part of the Healed One’s plan worked. Or is this just good luck?”

“Some luck,” Edlin agreed, “but the Healed One, too. He arranged it all.”

He was clearly ready to launch into an explanation, but Derian forestalled him with a raised hand.

“Wait for Wendee to get back with the tea. Where’s Firekeeper? She’ll want to hear this. I’m surprised she’s not in here rejoicing in your return. You’ve never seen anything like her mood since she left you behind in the tunnels. She nearly got herself killed trying to rescue you single-handedly.”

“It sounds,” Grateful Peace said, “as if we all have a considerable amount to tell each other. As for us, we owe our escape largely to Citrine.”

“It does sound,” Derian said slowly, “as if we do have a lot to tell each other.”

Along with the tea, Wendee brought Firekeeper and Blind Seer from where they had been drowsing in the yard. Despite the wolf-woman’s enforced sleep, she had shadows under her eyes so deep that they looked nearly as bruised as Edlin’s. Seeing unguarded shock touch both Edlin and Peace’s expressions, Derian realized how ill Firekeeper must appear.

By common consent, the story began when Firekeeper left Edlin and Peace. Edlin did much of the talking for the pair, Peace being subjected to Doc’s ministrations. In addition to filling in gaps in their knowledge, as Edlin spoke two things rapidly became apparent. One was that Edlin’s respect and admiration for Grateful Peace verged on awe—and that Peace’s affection for the younger man was just as sincere. Two, it became clear that Edlin had done a considerable amount of maturing during the time he had spent as Melina’s captive.

Odd,
Derian thought,
if Earl Kestrel owes this improvement in his son to an enemy.

Initially, Derian’s group had little to contribute to the tale. Citrine’s defection was dealt with lightly, though no effort was made to hide their worry about her or the various attempts they had made to get her back. Later, they had more to tell: the attempt to kidnap Doc, their visits to Ambassador Redbriar, the meeting with Xarxius. When they reached the point where Xarxius had been arrested for treason, Peace looked very grave.

“We were told something of this by one of the Healed One’s close confidants. I am deeply saddened,” Grateful Peace continued, “that Xarxius’s attempt to help us may cost him his life. He is a good and loyal servant to New Kelvin—no more a traitor to his kingdom, Speaker, and Healed One than am I.”

“Maybe,” Elise offered, “we can help him. Certainly, the Healed One doesn’t believe these accusations.”

“I certainly hope we can help him,” Peace replied, but his tone was without conviction.

“But,” Edlin added, “whatever else, Xarxius’s arrest was why we got away from Idalia. We never would have managed if Melina had still been around.”

With a glance at Peace, Edlin told how they’d made their escape owing to Citrine’s fortuitous intervention. She had provided the light by which they made their way into familiar reaches, but had not wished to come away with them.

“Treated us like enemies one moment,” Edlin said, “friends the next.”

“She is,” Peace agreed, “a troubled child. Part of her is in rebellion against her mother. I firmly believe that, but that part is nearly smothered beneath waves of guilty indebtedness and a desire to have her mother’s approval.”

After making their way to the Cloud Touching Spire by means of various tunnels, Edlin and Peace had petitioned the Healed One for assistance. He had not only agreed but had contrived a way that the gates would be opened for them.

“I think,” Edlin added, “that the Healed One wants to make it up to Peace for thinking him a traitor. He knows now what Melina is really like—and how terrible it would have been if she had gotten her hands on working magical artifacts.”

An agent of the Healed One had taken them to a place where they could get clean and conceal the worst of their injuries with face paint. He had also provided them with robes identical to those worn by many workers within Thendulla Lypella. Edlin’s had included a hood that covered his hair. As with Derian’s own group, New Kelvinese eclecticism had worked in favor of their disguises. The large population of the Earth Spires had assured that no one would notice a couple of strangers.

“I wish we could have managed something similar last year,” Wendee said, touching her still short front hair.

“But then,” Peace reminded her, “you needed to be able to pass for workers on a specific project. This time we could be from any of a number of walks of life.”

As the crowd within Thendulla Lypella began to gather to watch the rehearsal of the Harvest Dance, Peace and Edlin’s unnamed guide had positioned them near the gate. During the distribution of candy, the two men had simply walked out. There had been a tense moment when a man had knocked Grateful Peace to the ground in his eagerness to get a candy onion. Edlin had been ready to knock him down in turn, but the man had been so ashamed by his own behavior that he had helped them out of the more crowded areas and had even given them his own carefully assembled hoard of sweets.

“I say,” Edlin grinned, looking more like himself than he had, “he nearly made it impossible for us to get away. He’d seen us come out of Thendulla Lypella and wanted to escort us safely back to our offices within. Peace made up some nonsense about our having to visit someone at the Sericulturalists’ sodality and the man escorted us to their gate instead.”