The Dragons of Noor (21 page)

The queen released him and drew back. Miles hated the Cutters for what they’d done, but now he loved the Damusaun more. He would not come between her and her homeland in Oth.

“I promise, Damusaun,” he said.

I
t was snowing in her dreamwalk. Hanna opened her hands to catch the frail blue flakes. Thriss hummed in her ear as the snow twirled down. Each flake was long as a lady’s finger, slender as a bone. They were warm and dry as they piled up on Hanna’s upturned palm. Not snow, then. She drifted into the blue flurry of falling azure needles.

Low voices filled the predawn gloom. She was dreamwalking—moving in easy strides up the mountainside. Thriss coiled about her neck and pressed the top of her head against Hanna’s chin. Woodland giants took shape before Hanna in the dusk, azure trees stripped of their needles, the wind undressing them as it sang around their branches.

Root poison was killing them, stripping them of their needles. She walked closer to the ancient trees. Mist or smoke entwined their bare branches. Above the singing, the far-off sound of a babe’s cry drifted through the woods. Hanna entered the old forest where the trunks quavered. Where was the child?

Naked branches knocked together like great hollow rattles as azure needles drifted down from the high canopy. Wind tugged at Hanna’s cloak and hair, drawing her in with invisible hands.

Dawn’s pale copper beams filled the glade. The wailing was quieter now, and as Hanna entered a small clearing on the hill, she saw it had not come from a babe at all but from an old, bony woman curled up on a log. Her dark-skinned face was pinched, and her eyes were closed.

“Hello?” At Hanna’s soft greeting, the old woman stirred, opening her eyes. Both were milky-white. She was blind.

Reaching through the cascading needles, Hanna touched the woman tenderly on her shoulder. The green knit shawl came apart in her hand like spiderwebs.

Touching the shawl awakened Hanna. Such a light gesture, but she blinked and looked about, suddenly aware
of her bruised thigh, her throbbing head. She only half remembered that she’d been shot down and fallen from the sky. The old woman was still on the log. The azure needles were still falling. They hadn’t disappeared with her dreamwalk: something new. Was it the closeness of the azure trees that blended reality and dream? Down the hill beyond the little clearing, she caught a glimpse of the Dragon Queen pacing in the long grass. Hanna felt confused, the way she always felt after one of her dreamwalks.

She addressed the old woman. “I’m Hanna. What is your name?”

“Zabith.”

Needles drifted onto Zabith’s white hair, her dark, wrinkled neck. Her name whispered through Hanna’s mind. Miles had told her of the Forest Meer from Othlore who’d sailed east last winter. But this blind old woman seemed powerless, not like any meer she’d ever met. Hanna helped her up from the log. Zabith had been tall once, but she was partly stooped now, and she looked frail. “Why were you crying?”

Zabith did not answer. She traced Hanna’s cheek with her dry fingertips, then moved up and touched her eyelids. It felt as light as a moth landing on her skin.

“You are sqyth-eyed,” she said.

“How could you know that?”

“A Forest Meer can also be a seer.” Zabith let her hand drop.

A seer who’s blind?
thought Hanna.

“The trees are dying,” Zabith said.

Hanna looked uphill. All the azures in her view were losing their needles. “But there must be a few healthy Waytrees hidden in the last grove up here,” she argued, unwilling to give up hope just yet. “The dragons have been trying to protect them.”

Zabith covered her mouth and spoke huskily through her parted fingers. “Too late. No one can save them now.”

Hanna gripped the old woman’s shoulders. “How can we help? Tell me what to do.”

Zabith sniffed and tightened the wrap of her shawl. “You’re late. Very late. We were not sure you would come. And where is the boy?”

The old woman talked of one thing, then another. She was a meer, but perhaps the illness that took her vision had also taken her mind. Hanna rubbed her throbbing temples. “What boy?”

The swirling blue needles were turning color. A thick
rust-colored carpet buried Zabith’s feet and piled up around Hanna’s ankles.

Bring the boy the torches follow to the heart of Taproot Hollow
.

The answer had not come from Zabith; it had come from the Waytrees up the hill. The last stand of giant trees on the mountain looked skeletal without their needles.

Following the voices, Hanna climbed the hill with Zabith. The azure trunks creaked and moaned, a sound the
Leena
used to make on the ocean swells. The crunching needles underfoot added their dry sound to the deya voices. Just ahead, the tall deyas wavered flame-like as they emerged from their Waytrees. Male and female deyas, twelve to fifteen feet tall, stood before the mammoth azure trunks. Tendrils of mist coiled around their rooted feet, entwined their colorful robes, and shrouded their long, proud faces.

“Hannalyn.” The voice came from one or all; she could not tell. The sound had the heaviness of earth about it, as if the deyas were speaking from their roots instead of their mouths. Hanna did not wonder how they knew her name. The deyas were ever watchful. They would have seen her arrive and would have witnessed all
the changes going on about them. Silent and observant in their trees, they came out only when they wished to do so, or when the death of their Waytree forced them out.

It was alarming to see so many of them leave their trees at once. Deyas could not live apart from their grandtrees for long.

“Please,” Hanna said, “go back inside your azures. The dragons still fight the Cutters. Try and keep your homes alive.” The short speech awakened Thriss, who poked her snout out from under the cloak, rubbed the top of her head up against Hanna’s chin, and purred.

One deya stood before the rest. His long face was as gray-white as his mossy hair and beard. He was not the largest spirit, but he looked to be the oldest of them all.

“I am Evver,” he said. “We must go, Hannalyn. Our roots were weakened with poison. Now they are torn. Soon, there will be no Waytrees left to hold the worlds together.”

Behind Evver, the deyas whispered, “Sqyth-born one. Sqyth-born.”

Evver held up his broad hand to quiet them. He bent down to look at Hanna’s sqyth-eyes.

“You are the Kanameer. Servant of the Old Magic.” The deya’s deep voice poured over her like a waterfall. But his next words surprised her.

“You will lead us through Taproot Hollow to All Souls Wood.”

Hanna tried to steady herself. She was supposed to lead
them
to All Souls Wood? But she’d come here to ask them for passage to Oth. Looking into Evver’s deep green eyes she wanted to say,
I’ll take you to the wood
. Instead, she said, “I’m not sure how to find the way.”

A loud cracking sound came from the grove. Evver’s face darkened. “The breaking comes,” he whispered. The deyas behind Evver buried their faces in their hands. A low creaking and groaning poured from the silhouetted forest. The last giant trees on the mountain began to sway, as if a great wind had come up from the sea, but the air was all too still.

Hanna watched in horror as black lines shot up the enormous trunks, followed by earsplitting cracks as the trunks broke in two, and branches came raining down. The deyas turned and fled down the hillside. Hanna grabbed Zabith, but the old woman couldn’t run fast enough. Just as the nearest falling tree was about to crush
them both, Evver scooped them up in his great, long arms and carried them down the hill.

The deya set them down in the damp grass. Three more mammoth trees toppled down. Holding on to Zabith, Hanna felt the falling in her body, the riveting sounds as the trees struck the ground, hitting her bones like a hammer. She was breaking, falling, as she felt all the hope go out from under her. She cried until her throat felt swollen, her nose clogged, her eyes stung.

The last tree fell and the mountain stilled. Rust-colored azure needles swirled down. Hanna checked on Thriss hiding under her cloak.

“Evver,” Hanna said in a shaky voice. He bent down to hear her better. “Thank you for saving us.”

“You are welcome, Kanameer.” He returned her gaze with piercing green eyes. “You are the Dreamer who will lead us to All Souls Wood,” he said. “But where is the boy?”

She bit her lip, wishing that she could help this kind deya. “I’m sorry, Evver. I don’t know who you mean.”

“You do,” he said. His confidence startled her. She stroked Thriss’s slender tail. When she and Zabith had first followed the deyas’ voices up the hill, they’d heard
them softly calling,
Bring the boy the torches follow to the heart of Taproot Hollow
.

Words from the game Blind Seer. She went over the last verse in her mind:

They wanted the boy who had power to herd torchlight. They wanted Taunier.

The Damusaun flew Taunier to the mountainside, a sleek blue flame guiding her way as she descended through the layered mist to the ridge of Mount Olone. She landed on a barren patch of rocky ground. Taunier dismounted near a jumbled pile of branches before the queen winged up again to disappear into the fog.

Hanna huddled with Zabith, waiting. Thriss had brought her message to the Damusaun.
Ask Taunier to join
me in the high meadow and bring the Falconer’s book
. Hanna could barely make out Taunier’s small light in the fog as he made his way through the maze of tumbled logs.

She lost him for a few minutes until she saw his dark head appear again, gilded by the light burning just above his outstretched hand. The flame went out when he lowered his arm to climb over the last giant trunk between them.

“You’ve come,” she said simply. It had seemed hours since she’d sent Thriss to the Damusaun with the message for Taunier. She clung to Zabith to keep herself from rushing over and throwing her arms around him.

Taunier dipped his hands in his pockets. Hanna followed his eyes as he squinted through the swirling mist. Here and there the deyas sat hunched over on their dead trees. They looked like giant marble statues of fallen gods, stonelike figures moving to lift a twig or to lean to the side. The picture was one of defeat. One deya seemed to be washing his face with handfuls of azure needles. He moaned quietly as the rust color dusted his nose and cheeks.

“Taunier,” she said hoarsely, “this is Meer Zabith. The Forest Meer Miles told us about who sailed here from Othlore last winter.”

Taunier put out his hand, saw that she was blind, and jammed it in his pocket again. “It’s good to meet you,” he said hesitantly. When Zabith did not answer, he added, “You’ll both be hungry. Meer Eason sent this.” He pulled some dried fish from his rucksack and broke off three pieces. They ate together and shared the water pouch. The liquid cooled Hanna’s throat. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was.

“Some of the Cutters escaped in ships,” Taunier said. “Others are hiding out somewhere on the mountain.” He scuffed the needled ground with his muddy boot.

Hanna read the sorrow on his face. “Who died?”

“We lost four dragons last night,” said Taunier. “The dragons were burned this morning in ritual fire.” Taunier’s voice was raw. “And we lost Kanoae.”

“Kanoae?” A thickness came to her throat, saying it. They’d been hit together, fallen together, but she couldn’t imagine Kanoae gone. She’d been so strong, so fearless. Hanna had few tears left; she’d spilled so many with Zabith as the forest fell, but hearing about Kanoae made the loss cut deeper, and more tears came.

“We brought Kanoae’s body down the mountain,” said Taunier. “She will be buried at sea.”

Hanna nodded and wiped her eyes. The Sea Meer would have wanted that.

“The rest of us are all right,” Taunier added, halfheartedly.

Hanna was fighting to breathe against the blade of sorrow that had slipped beneath her rib cage. She spoke, hoping to salve the wound with ordinary words. “Did you bring the book?”

Taunier pulled
The Way Between Worlds
from the rucksack and handed it to her.

“The mist is thick,” said Zabith. “Give the girl a light to read by.”

Taunier reared back a little, unused to Zabith’s direct manner; then he clicked his fingers and sparked a small bright flame. It hovered an inch above his fingertips. Hanna flipped open the book to the Oth map showing the way from Taproot Hollow to All Souls Wood. The path was circuitous and not easy to follow; she adjusted her eyes to Taunier’s small light, trying to trace it on the page.

The Falconer’s map would help guide them once they were in Oth, but it did not show her where to find the Waytree passage here on Mount Olone, for the Falconer knew the mysterious passage never stayed in one place for
long. She looked up. “How can we find the entrance with all the Waytrees down?”

Taunier’s face shone in the beam of his bright flame. He crooked his neck and studied the map. “I haven’t a clue.”

Meer Zabith hobbled to Evver and leaned against the cracked log to speak to the hunched deya. There was a motherly manner in the way she held herself upright and touched the torn robes, though Zabith came up only to the giant deya’s knee.

Taunier said, “The Damusaun can’t help you find it. She said she could not come any closer than the cliff, you know, because of … them.” He motioned to the deyas, still sitting here and there on the logs.

“The law of the Old Magic still keeps them apart,” said Hanna.