Birthnight Read Free Page B

they have turned
away. This invisibility,” she added, as she trailed her horn across
the air, “is new—but is it so very different? We are already
fading.”
    The dragon thought long on this, but not
deeply—although depth was usually his way. “When we kill the child,
all will be as it was.”
    “So you believe the Queen?”
    “Of course.” He paused. “Do you doubt
her?”
    “I have never killed a child before.”
    * * *
    Starlight trailed down the spirals of her
horn like pale, silver liquid. Although he longed to take to the
skies, he remained at her side. He felt an odd tremor, a strange
desire, as he looked at her silhouette in the night sky. Gold and
jewels and magical things had once inspired him—but in time they
had lost their lustre and importance, and become just another cold,
hard bed, undifferentiated from the rocks of his cavern.
    She was different, and although he did not
desire to possess her or hoard her, he felt something that reminded
him of his... youth. The star flared suddenly brilliant, and his
eyes were drawn to it. Before he understood why, he had opened his
great jaws; the sound of his trumpeting filled the quiet night with
yearning.
    And as he turned the corner of the bending
path-made-real, the forest suddenly ended in mid-tree. A blanket of
cold, dry sand lay underfoot, and beyond it, so far away that even
his eyes could make out no details, lay a small mortal town. High
above it, a heart exposed, the star burned in beautiful relief.
    They were almost upon it.
    * * *
    There was nothing but for the Queen of Faerie
to lead the regal procession through the uncomfortable desert. The
cold, of course, bothered no one—but the very disappearance of her
magically called trees displeased her. She bore the circlet of
silver across her flawless face, and her hair, pale and fine,
draped from her shoulder to the hem of her magnificent cloak. Her
people attended to her in their own way; they played beautiful,
haunting melodies on pipes and harps and chimes; they danced and
whispered her praises in their soft, fey voices. It did not lighten
her mood.
    At night, the streets were still; the animals
slept away from the cold of the night air in tight little boxes
that no dragon would have fit in, had he cared to try. People—and
the town had the look of a busy, crowded place—had also disappeared
into their dwellings, which were, for the most part, even tinier
than those built for their animals.
    They tread the road in silence; even the
voices of the sylvan folk dropped away into a hush. The phoenix
hovered an inch or two above the ground, which was as close to
earth as he ever came, except in the dying; the harpies’ endless
stream of abuse and obscenities had run dry. The unicorn spoke
once; no one would have urged her to be silent.
    “Can you feel it?” She whispered, as her
hooves did a delicate little dance, “can you feel it?”
    There was something in the air, something
familiar—a word that hovered close to the tongue without quite
being caught and uttered. The dragon shook his mighty head, as if
to clear it, but before he could answer, the manger came into
view.
    It was as the other buildings to the eye;
straw strewn about the wood and mud floor; ox and mule within in
stabled walls, sheep and goat without, in a fenced enclosure. But
above it, the star burned bright, burned direct; and there was a
tingle in the eyes and heart that viewed this humble building that
was undeniable. One door, a ramshackle old eyesore, was off its
hinge, and it swung in the wind, creaking.
    Except that there was no wind. The air was
dead and cool.
    They had come to kill a child. The child
waited. His parents—the black dragon could not think of who else
the haggard, sleeping couple could be—lay to either side of him,
faces buried in their dirty, tired arms. They slept. But He did
not.
    His eyes were wide, unblinking—as beautiful
and deep as a dragon’s unlidded eyes. His face was peaceful; he
wanted no