searching for weakness, searching for a chink,
a crack.
Marcus sat on the
small stool in the middle of the room, shut out the clawing, and considered
what he had to do. He’d never cast a spell of such magnitude before, not in
cold blood. He knew how to do it; Draconas had taught him, long ago, on the
bank of a river.
There are two
types of dragon-magic, Marcus. Like two types of strategy in a battle:
offensive and defensive. From what I have observed watching the monks, humans
can use either one or the other. The determining factor as to which they can
use appears to be sex. Females can use defensive magic, males offensive. You
are unique, in that you can use both.
Outside the door,
the dragon snorted in frustration. Marcus forced himself to concentrate, to
forget the dragon. He brought the image of the boat to mind, so that it was
like a wet painting on a canvas, and he began to scrub it with water, so that
the colors streamed and ran together and dribbled off the canvas in muddy
droplets. He scrubbed and scrubbed until the image of the boat vanished.
Looking at the painting, he saw the river and he saw the black net of tree
branches catching the stars in the sky. But no boat. No Marcus. No Evelina.
He sighed deeply.
He could tell by the contented warmth of pleasure that the magic had worked.
The weakness and the sick feeling would come later; hopefully much later, after
they’d managed to sneak through the cavern.
Marcus picked up
the oars and, wincing at the pain in his hands, began to row.
Evelina opened her
mouth.
Marcus shook his head,
reminding her she must be silent.
“Are we invisible
now?” she whispered.
Marcus nodded.
Evelina glanced
around at the boat, which was plainly visible, and at herself, and at him.
“Good job,” she
whispered solemnly. “I can’t see a thing.”
Marcus smiled,
thinking she was joking to relieve the tension. He continued to row and the
boat rounded the bend of the river.
“There it is!”
Evelina cried in a smothered voice that she remembered just in time to keep
soft. She pointed.
Marcus glanced
over his shoulder. The river flowed into a black maw. Chill, dank air washed
over them. Evelina shivered and cast him a pleading glance that said, quite
plainly, “It’s not too late to turn around and go back!”
He knew those
words because he was hearing them inside his head. He kept on rowing. The black
maw came nearer and nearer, spewing out the river, sucking them in.
The rock cliff
loomed above them, blotting out the stars. He listened, but heard only the soft
gurgle of the river water, roiling around the base of the stone walls. Grald
might be in there, crouched in the darkness, waiting. Or perhaps a cadre of
monks, their hands tipped with fire, deadly bolts ready.
Whatever eyes were
watching would not be able to see him. He reminded himself of that and
continued to row. The maw came closer. He was rowing as quietly as he could,
but the oars made plashing noises as they entered the water, and there was
nothing he could do to muffle them. The river’s flow was not very strong here,
and he hoped that one mighty pull would give the boat momentum enough to coast
through the cavern, so that he would not have to put the oars into the water
once they were inside.
The entrance was
coming up fast upon them. He had forgotten it was so low. Evelina took one
frightened look, then hunched down and threw the blanket over her head.
“I can’t watch!”
she gasped.
Marcus gave a
final pull at the oars, and then shipped them and ducked his head.
The boat skimmed
over the surface and slid into the maw. He was awash in darkness so deep that
it made the lambent light of stars and river seem bright by contrast. He could
see nothing, and he recalled how the monks had lit lanterns on their boats when
they had sailed into the cavern.
Marcus stared hard
in the direction of the shoreline. He could not see it. He could see nothing in
the pitch dark of the cave. He couldn’t hear
a crack.
Marcus sat on the
small stool in the middle of the room, shut out the clawing, and considered
what he had to do. He’d never cast a spell of such magnitude before, not in
cold blood. He knew how to do it; Draconas had taught him, long ago, on the
bank of a river.
There are two
types of dragon-magic, Marcus. Like two types of strategy in a battle:
offensive and defensive. From what I have observed watching the monks, humans
can use either one or the other. The determining factor as to which they can
use appears to be sex. Females can use defensive magic, males offensive. You
are unique, in that you can use both.
Outside the door,
the dragon snorted in frustration. Marcus forced himself to concentrate, to
forget the dragon. He brought the image of the boat to mind, so that it was
like a wet painting on a canvas, and he began to scrub it with water, so that
the colors streamed and ran together and dribbled off the canvas in muddy
droplets. He scrubbed and scrubbed until the image of the boat vanished.
Looking at the painting, he saw the river and he saw the black net of tree
branches catching the stars in the sky. But no boat. No Marcus. No Evelina.
He sighed deeply.
He could tell by the contented warmth of pleasure that the magic had worked.
The weakness and the sick feeling would come later; hopefully much later, after
they’d managed to sneak through the cavern.
Marcus picked up
the oars and, wincing at the pain in his hands, began to row.
Evelina opened her
mouth.
Marcus shook his head,
reminding her she must be silent.
“Are we invisible
now?” she whispered.
Marcus nodded.
Evelina glanced
around at the boat, which was plainly visible, and at herself, and at him.
“Good job,” she
whispered solemnly. “I can’t see a thing.”
Marcus smiled,
thinking she was joking to relieve the tension. He continued to row and the
boat rounded the bend of the river.
“There it is!”
Evelina cried in a smothered voice that she remembered just in time to keep
soft. She pointed.
Marcus glanced
over his shoulder. The river flowed into a black maw. Chill, dank air washed
over them. Evelina shivered and cast him a pleading glance that said, quite
plainly, “It’s not too late to turn around and go back!”
He knew those
words because he was hearing them inside his head. He kept on rowing. The black
maw came nearer and nearer, spewing out the river, sucking them in.
The rock cliff
loomed above them, blotting out the stars. He listened, but heard only the soft
gurgle of the river water, roiling around the base of the stone walls. Grald
might be in there, crouched in the darkness, waiting. Or perhaps a cadre of
monks, their hands tipped with fire, deadly bolts ready.
Whatever eyes were
watching would not be able to see him. He reminded himself of that and
continued to row. The maw came closer. He was rowing as quietly as he could,
but the oars made plashing noises as they entered the water, and there was
nothing he could do to muffle them. The river’s flow was not very strong here,
and he hoped that one mighty pull would give the boat momentum enough to coast
through the cavern, so that he would not have to put the oars into the water
once they were inside.
The entrance was
coming up fast upon them. He had forgotten it was so low. Evelina took one
frightened look, then hunched down and threw the blanket over her head.
“I can’t watch!”
she gasped.
Marcus gave a
final pull at the oars, and then shipped them and ducked his head.
The boat skimmed
over the surface and slid into the maw. He was awash in darkness so deep that
it made the lambent light of stars and river seem bright by contrast. He could
see nothing, and he recalled how the monks had lit lanterns on their boats when
they had sailed into the cavern.
Marcus stared hard
in the direction of the shoreline. He could not see it. He could see nothing in
the pitch dark of the cave. He couldn’t hear
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