now he sees that, ever since he woke up in that tiny, strange room upstairs, he’s been reserving the possibility that it all might be some kind of illusion, dragon-induced, a dream. And that possibility has kept him sane and balanced . . . until now.
He drags one hand along the planks of a table by the fireplace. The wood is silky with age and wear. And suddenly his heart is pounding and his hands are in fists. He’s taking in air in great heaving gulps. He wants to run, run, escape, like he’s trapped, buried alive beneath the very
real
weight of this alien century. But there’s nowhere he can run to, he knows that now, at least not outside these particular walls. Nowhere he can go that will be anything like home.
N’Doch flattens both palms on the tabletop and presses downward until his skin molds itself to the cracks and the worn grain of the wood. The pain lets him focus. He forces himself to relax. His life’s never been easy so far, and he hasn’t survived this long by letting panic rule him. He lets out a shaky but controlled sigh, straightens, and looks around.
The room is long and low, lit mostly by bright flames from the hearth and cold gray light from the many windows along one side. On the table beside him are baskets of shelled nuts, and wooden platters piled with dried podlike stuff that N’Doch doesn’t recognize. In front of the window nearest the fireplace sits a tall wooden wheel with a little seat attached and a spike wound with fuzzy looking string. There’s something familiar about it, but N’Doch can’t quite place the device, or what it’s for. There are garments and bits of fabric scattered here and there, and a clay pitcher and cups on one of the smaller tables. The room looks well broken-in, like it gets a lot of use but also, a lot of care.
He steps toward the windows, feeling the chunky hand-cut beams skim past just above his head. Must be he’s a lot taller than the folks who built this place. There’s a door between the windows, but he doesn’t go there just yet. He stoops for a look through the glass.
Outside the windows, a roofed stone terrace runs the length of the house. Opposite the door, a few steps and astone path lead off through a screen of leafless bushes. Past the bushes, a big open space is rapidly filling up with snow. And there she is.
Ah.
No matter how resentful or resistant he’s been to her, the dragon’s beauty has never failed to take his breath away. And against this cold white landscape, her colors shine like sapphires and emeralds, or at least this is how N’Doch imagines such fabulous jewels would look. The other one, the big guy Earth, he’s there, too: all dark and bronzy like agate and smoky quartz, the cheap stuff you could find in the markets at home. Earth’s only claim to beauty is his curving ivory horns. His stout and gleaming claws are made less threatening by being softly blunted at their tips. N’Doch thinks you’d have to go some to find the big guy threatening, but he admits he didn’t always feel that way. And he decides that Earth looks handsomer than he remembers him. Maybe a bit bigger, too, and not so downtrodden-looking. There’s even a hint of glimmer to his plated sides.
The dragons are sitting side by side in the clearing, and the snow is melting right out from underneath them as the women crowd around to pet and admire them. N’Doch’s mouth twists. His heart wants to be out there, or a part of it does, stroking Water’s silky hide, letting her warmth drive out the bone-deep chill he’s felt since he woke up from his vision of running. He doesn’t see the girl anywhere yet, so probably he should be out there translating. But his feet won’t take him. Not just yet.
He turns back into the room, away from the dragon-tinted light. He spots a big, stringed instrument, kind of like an acoustic guitar, propped against a chair. It’s like a searchlight in fog-shrouded darkness, an anchor in stormy seas. He makes a
He drags one hand along the planks of a table by the fireplace. The wood is silky with age and wear. And suddenly his heart is pounding and his hands are in fists. He’s taking in air in great heaving gulps. He wants to run, run, escape, like he’s trapped, buried alive beneath the very
real
weight of this alien century. But there’s nowhere he can run to, he knows that now, at least not outside these particular walls. Nowhere he can go that will be anything like home.
N’Doch flattens both palms on the tabletop and presses downward until his skin molds itself to the cracks and the worn grain of the wood. The pain lets him focus. He forces himself to relax. His life’s never been easy so far, and he hasn’t survived this long by letting panic rule him. He lets out a shaky but controlled sigh, straightens, and looks around.
The room is long and low, lit mostly by bright flames from the hearth and cold gray light from the many windows along one side. On the table beside him are baskets of shelled nuts, and wooden platters piled with dried podlike stuff that N’Doch doesn’t recognize. In front of the window nearest the fireplace sits a tall wooden wheel with a little seat attached and a spike wound with fuzzy looking string. There’s something familiar about it, but N’Doch can’t quite place the device, or what it’s for. There are garments and bits of fabric scattered here and there, and a clay pitcher and cups on one of the smaller tables. The room looks well broken-in, like it gets a lot of use but also, a lot of care.
He steps toward the windows, feeling the chunky hand-cut beams skim past just above his head. Must be he’s a lot taller than the folks who built this place. There’s a door between the windows, but he doesn’t go there just yet. He stoops for a look through the glass.
Outside the windows, a roofed stone terrace runs the length of the house. Opposite the door, a few steps and astone path lead off through a screen of leafless bushes. Past the bushes, a big open space is rapidly filling up with snow. And there she is.
Ah.
No matter how resentful or resistant he’s been to her, the dragon’s beauty has never failed to take his breath away. And against this cold white landscape, her colors shine like sapphires and emeralds, or at least this is how N’Doch imagines such fabulous jewels would look. The other one, the big guy Earth, he’s there, too: all dark and bronzy like agate and smoky quartz, the cheap stuff you could find in the markets at home. Earth’s only claim to beauty is his curving ivory horns. His stout and gleaming claws are made less threatening by being softly blunted at their tips. N’Doch thinks you’d have to go some to find the big guy threatening, but he admits he didn’t always feel that way. And he decides that Earth looks handsomer than he remembers him. Maybe a bit bigger, too, and not so downtrodden-looking. There’s even a hint of glimmer to his plated sides.
The dragons are sitting side by side in the clearing, and the snow is melting right out from underneath them as the women crowd around to pet and admire them. N’Doch’s mouth twists. His heart wants to be out there, or a part of it does, stroking Water’s silky hide, letting her warmth drive out the bone-deep chill he’s felt since he woke up from his vision of running. He doesn’t see the girl anywhere yet, so probably he should be out there translating. But his feet won’t take him. Not just yet.
He turns back into the room, away from the dragon-tinted light. He spots a big, stringed instrument, kind of like an acoustic guitar, propped against a chair. It’s like a searchlight in fog-shrouded darkness, an anchor in stormy seas. He makes a
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