The new sub-island he had created formed a craggy mess of black rock and fresh flowing lava. The rock solidified and cracked open again and again as the Old Man repositioned himself or sank his talons into the ground for a good stretch. My mouth dried as I saw how large the island had grown. It was no longer a minor protuberance of rock, what one might dismiss as a simple outcropping pulled up by the waves only to be torn down again later. The Old Man was growing himself a new bed, sized to match his proportions.
On the edge of the island, the Old Man had built a bizarre rock garden of lava pillars, grouped together in odd clusters. I didn’t understand what purpose they might serve. They weren’t shelter or furniture, and their shapes seemed too irregular and uneven to be decorative.
As I walked forward, carrying the harp a helpful Black Brotherhood adept had brought me from Zherias, a dark shadow fell over the beach. I hadn’t needed to introduce myself: the Old Man must have heard me long before I was visible. The great dragon rose, eyes glowing with molten fire, head turned in my direction.
It occurred to me this might be the last stupid thing I ever did.
“Do you prefer to be called the Old Man?” I called out. I set the harp down next to me.
“I have worn many names,” the dragon responded with that voice that seemed far more fitting coming from his throat than it did when Khaemezra spoke. “Earth Terror and Ground Shaker, World Ripper and Night’s Fire. I am the Betrayal of Foundations, the Toppler of Cities. I was there when Kharolaen burned and its people choked on boiling ash, I laughed as Ynalra drowned in lava.” The dragon chuckled. “Yes, call me Old Man.”
I took a deep breath. “I’d like to make you a deal.”
The dragon shifted. His neck moved forward and his head pointed at me. “Do you want me to teach you magic? Destroy your enemies? Show you how to become a god?”
I paused in surprise. “You can do that?”
“Oh yes,” the dragon purred, “in the old days you little mortals would come by the score. You would ask for my favor, my knowledge, my genius to solve all your problems for you. You would beg and supplicate yourselves, seeking my counsel and wisdom. Is that what you want?” His eyes thinned down to slits while slow thick clouds of sulfurous smoke trickled down from his nostrils.
The worst cons are the ones so over-the-top, so desirable, that they are too good to be trusted. Being a god and destroying all my enemies did sound like the solution to many of my problems, but at what cost? I wasn’t so na?ve as to think the Old Man would do such a thing for free, if he could do so at all.
“With all respect, what I’d like is for you to let me leave the island unharmed. So here’s my offer: I’ll play for you tonight. A special concert just for you. I’ll play anything you want. In the morning, you let me leave. What do you say?”
The dragon settled back on its haunches. “Play.”
* * *
Later, Teraeth’s hand fell on my shoulder. “Kihrin, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to be here right now.”
I looked up, blinking. The sound of morning seagulls hunting for breakfast echoed in the distance, playing a counterpoint to the crashing waves coming down on shore. The sky was a shroud of dull violet gray, tinged magenta to the west where the sun was rising. The air smelled of seawater, rotting kelp, and burning rock.
“I—” I cleared my throat. “What—?” The last thing I remembered, the Old Man had agreed to free me if I played him a few songs,* but that had been last night.
It was dawn.
“Play,” the Old Man’s voice ordered, and I felt my fingers jerk toward the strings. This differed from a gaesh command. The specter of unbearable agony and certain death enforced a gaesh’s orders, but I could refuse. Not this time though.
Teraeth cursed as the dragon spoke. I don’t think he’d realized that the mountainous pile of black rock offshore was the Old Man until the dragon moved.
Most people see something that enormous and assume it must be a hill. It’s too large for us to process as a living creature when it isn’t moving.
I bit back a scream as I touched the strings. There was blood on my fingertips, blood from playing so long and hard on the harp I’d torn skin and nails.
Yet still I played.
“Teraeth,” I said as I bit back on whimpering, “help me. I can’t stop.”
“He has you under his thrall,” Teraeth said. “I’m not strong enough to break it. Let me get Mother.”
“Run,” I said.
But as he did that, the sand of the beach rose, much as it had when Tyentso had been fighting off the Old Man. A wall of thick molten glass blocked Teraeth’s escape. We looked at each other, but I couldn’t stop playing, and Teraeth had no retreat. Teraeth cast his gaze around him for something, anything, but what weapon did he have against a monster such as that?
“Play,” the dragon crooned, “sing, and play for me. Sing me songs of ancient Kharolaen and sing of the ocean cities of Sillythia. Sing of Cinaval the Beautiful, and tell me the ballad of Tirrin Woodkeeper’s Ride.”
I felt a panic well up in me I fought back down. “I don’t know those songs. Can you hum a few bars for me first?”
“SING.”
I ground my teeth together. Whatever spell he was casting, he wasn’t a gaesh. I tried to find strength in that, strength enough to resist. “This wasn’t our deal!”
“Deal? DEAL?” The dragon rose on his haunches, spread his wings to blot out the sky. “You’re nothing but a pathetic mortal. An idiot soldier who follows orders, accepts the world around you without criticism or curiosity. An uneducated fool whose only worth is to keep me entertained. I don’t make deals with ants.”
I could only stare. As insults went, that was oddly specific. Also not true, given my lack of military service. I found myself reminded of Relos Var and the way he’d hated me so much, for someone I’d considered a stranger.
The dragon lunged.
His massive head snapped toward Teraeth, who dove to the side. The dragon’s mouth closed on air. The Old Man lifted his mouth up to the sky, shook his head, and gulped down …
Nothing?
I raised a hand to shield my eyes. Teraeth lay across the sand, his expression one of repressed pain as he cradled one arm. He was alive though. So was I. Hell, even the borrowed harp seemed undamaged, still resting against my knee.
What had the Old Man eaten?
A moment later, the Old Man finished his phantom meal and let out an angry roar. He flew off, circling around in a wide spiral before flying out to one of the other islands.
We watched him go, neither of us saying a word, barely daring to breathe lest he hear and circle back.
“I really shouldn’t have suggested you sing,” Teraeth finally said.
I started laughing, weakly, as I leaned forward and rested my head against the harp. My fingertips ached and I felt like I had been awake for the last twenty-four hours—which was probably true.
“Not one of your better ideas,” I agreed. “But then coming down here to play for him wasn’t one of mine.”
Behind us, the molten glass wall that the dragon had erected darkened to black, then disintegrated back into particles of sand.
Teraeth and I scrambled to our feet, not sure what we were about to face next.
As the wall collapsed, Doc stood on the other side. His expression was pure anger.
“You’re late,” he told me.
44: FENCING LESSONS