start almost made the dzur leap, but not quite. He stepped around the tree, and the dzur’s head suddenly swung.
Miklós followed the dzur’s gaze, and gasped. He had never before been so close to a dragon. It is one thing to know that a dragon’s head is taller than you are, another to see one close up. The dragon wasn’t looking at him but at the dzur; and all of its tentacles were fully erect. This time Miklós found nothing amusing about it. He stared, mesmerized, until he heard a louder snarl than he’d heard yet, and a thin black streak launched itself across his line of sight and into the dragon’s face.
As the dragon gave a bellow, Miklós came to himself enough to turn and run. The bellow echoed through the forest and left the prince with a ringing in his ears that went on and on and on. He
wasn’t really aware that it had stopped until, some time later, as he lay face down at the edge of the River, another sound came to him from behind.
This far-off sound he recognized as the death wail of a dzur.
TWO HOURS LATER MIKLÓS LAY ON HIS BACK, CHUCKLING TO himself. Instinct, of course; his own and the dragon’s. The dragon had never been following him, and he had never really been lost. Both of them had been making for the River.
And why not? It was cool and pleasant to his legs. Lifting his head to look downstream through a tunnel of elms dotted with occasional willows, he was certain it was cool and pleasant to the dragon’s feet as well. He chuckled again.
There was, however, a more serious side to it. Now that he was at the River, it would be dangerous to leave it; he might become lost indeed. But the dragon was down river from him, and he did not relish the idea of walking past it. Dragons, unlike dzur, had no objection to manflesh; or so the stories said.
He lifted his head and considered crossing over. That would be a solution, except that here, fresh from the waterfall and the trip down the mountain, the water was cold, fast, and deep. A raft? That would do, if he could make sure the raft would bring him to the other side before it brought him to the dragon. The idea of floating into the dragon’s maw was not appealing. A pole? Would that be enough?
As much to test his skill as for any other reason, he found a large tree and brought forth the Power, forcing his mind through the rigid paths and strict logic required to bend it to his will. The tree fell. The dragon looked up, startled, then went back to drinking from the River.
Using the same Power, Miklós cut the tree into eight even sections. He laid them next to each other and concentrated still
harder. Using the power of Faerie to destroy was hard; using it to build was even harder. Or, at least, using it to build something that would last.
The Power was there, and the Pathway in his mind, and the Source whence came the Power. All that was needed was understanding—strict, inflexible rules guided the use. They must be remembered without error and applied without hesitation.
Three hard, sweating hours later he lay back, exhausted. The sun had set long ago, but he had scarcely noticed. He wasn’t even sure if he had succeeded, but that was for tomorrow. Now he needed sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING HE STUDIED HIS RAFT. IT WAS BOUND together by the Power of Faerie, and only by his desire could those logs be broken from each other. He dragged the raft over to the River (yes, the dragon was still there) and made sure it floated. Good. Now, for a pole.
He pulled the raft ashore, found a sapling, and cut it easily. He used his shaving knife to trim off the small twigs and branches. Good.
Now, of course, the question was did he trust his ability as a waterman to carry him past the dragon, or, alternately, did he trust the dragon to leave him alone?
He was considering this when he heard the sound of splashing from downstream, surprisingly loud over the rushing of the River itself. He couldn’t see the cause of the splashing, but apparently
Miklós followed the dzur’s gaze, and gasped. He had never before been so close to a dragon. It is one thing to know that a dragon’s head is taller than you are, another to see one close up. The dragon wasn’t looking at him but at the dzur; and all of its tentacles were fully erect. This time Miklós found nothing amusing about it. He stared, mesmerized, until he heard a louder snarl than he’d heard yet, and a thin black streak launched itself across his line of sight and into the dragon’s face.
As the dragon gave a bellow, Miklós came to himself enough to turn and run. The bellow echoed through the forest and left the prince with a ringing in his ears that went on and on and on. He
wasn’t really aware that it had stopped until, some time later, as he lay face down at the edge of the River, another sound came to him from behind.
This far-off sound he recognized as the death wail of a dzur.
TWO HOURS LATER MIKLÓS LAY ON HIS BACK, CHUCKLING TO himself. Instinct, of course; his own and the dragon’s. The dragon had never been following him, and he had never really been lost. Both of them had been making for the River.
And why not? It was cool and pleasant to his legs. Lifting his head to look downstream through a tunnel of elms dotted with occasional willows, he was certain it was cool and pleasant to the dragon’s feet as well. He chuckled again.
There was, however, a more serious side to it. Now that he was at the River, it would be dangerous to leave it; he might become lost indeed. But the dragon was down river from him, and he did not relish the idea of walking past it. Dragons, unlike dzur, had no objection to manflesh; or so the stories said.
He lifted his head and considered crossing over. That would be a solution, except that here, fresh from the waterfall and the trip down the mountain, the water was cold, fast, and deep. A raft? That would do, if he could make sure the raft would bring him to the other side before it brought him to the dragon. The idea of floating into the dragon’s maw was not appealing. A pole? Would that be enough?
As much to test his skill as for any other reason, he found a large tree and brought forth the Power, forcing his mind through the rigid paths and strict logic required to bend it to his will. The tree fell. The dragon looked up, startled, then went back to drinking from the River.
Using the same Power, Miklós cut the tree into eight even sections. He laid them next to each other and concentrated still
harder. Using the power of Faerie to destroy was hard; using it to build was even harder. Or, at least, using it to build something that would last.
The Power was there, and the Pathway in his mind, and the Source whence came the Power. All that was needed was understanding—strict, inflexible rules guided the use. They must be remembered without error and applied without hesitation.
Three hard, sweating hours later he lay back, exhausted. The sun had set long ago, but he had scarcely noticed. He wasn’t even sure if he had succeeded, but that was for tomorrow. Now he needed sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING HE STUDIED HIS RAFT. IT WAS BOUND together by the Power of Faerie, and only by his desire could those logs be broken from each other. He dragged the raft over to the River (yes, the dragon was still there) and made sure it floated. Good. Now, for a pole.
He pulled the raft ashore, found a sapling, and cut it easily. He used his shaving knife to trim off the small twigs and branches. Good.
Now, of course, the question was did he trust his ability as a waterman to carry him past the dragon, or, alternately, did he trust the dragon to leave him alone?
He was considering this when he heard the sound of splashing from downstream, surprisingly loud over the rushing of the River itself. He couldn’t see the cause of the splashing, but apparently
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