The Door Into Shadow

The second wing tore free, another pain. She saw webs that gleamed like polished onyx and struts rough with black sap-phires. Then came the terrible length of tail, the deadly spine at the end of it whipping free, lashing outward, poised above her to protect. And after the tail, the taloned forelimbs, their diamonds flashing in the blinding Firelight. A neck, the great head, glowing eyes burning not silver now but blue, lean-ing down over her and glaring past her with impartial chal-lenge at Reavers and Fyrd and the dark something that ap-proached— "Hhnr ae mrin'hen," said the voice of wind and storm from right above her. "Whole at last, yes!"
She stared up at Hasai, so torn between wonder and terror that she couldn't tell anymore whether her weakness came from impending death or sheer astonishment. Her mdaha gazed down at her, lilting his head in a gesture of greeting, and turned his attention again to the field and the forces attacking the scarp.
She had heard Dragons roar In her mind. But in the open it was something else. Rocks fell down from the cliff, and the ground shook

almost as hard as It had before. Not just one voice roared, but two, ten, a score, a hundred. The mdeihei were there too, not as solidly as Hasai, but present enough to be a host of shifting wings and deadly razor-barbs and
glowing, glaring eyes, ail looking down at the attackers. They sang of a solution to this problem, one that was not to be feared. Death. Death. Death. Hasai reared his head back, bared the diamond fangs that few had ever survived seeing, and flamed. The Reavers fled, panicked. Hasai's blast of Dragonfire melted the ground where they had been standing. Even the slow-stalking shadow at the southern edge of the field halted at that, as if stunned. Fyrd scattered in all directions but eastward, where the Sun seemed to be coming up.
The scarp was fenced with fire again, but this time the consuming white of Dragonfire, with a tinge of blue to it; and inside the circle a tremendous shape with wings like thunder-clouds was rearing up against the cliff, burning in iron and diamond, ineluctably real. And down by one of his hind ta-lons, hanging onto it for support, a tiny figure bleeding Fire from a wound in the heart stared up and up at what had been, and now was.
Segnbora thanked him politely for her defense — then she turned to look with grim, delighted purpose out at the field, at the fleeing Reavers and Fyrd, and down at the thing in her hand that burned with Fire.
"Sithessch 'tdae," she sang to Hasai and the other mdeihei who stirred in shadow along the ledge, "untidy to leave them running around like this, don't you think?"
The mdeihei sang angry assent in a thunder thai echoed from the surrounding mountains, causing a bass obbligato of avalanches to follow. "Must we send them rdahaihf" Hasai said in an ominous baritone solo.
Segnbora stepped forward to the edge of the shelf where they stood, only partially aware of Herewiss's and Freelorn's prone forms. Breathing or not, they'd have to wait until later. "I don't know," she said, and raised Skadhwe*, thinking hard.
It can't be done, they say — a gating for more than fifty. However. . She closed her eyes, not needing the physical ones to see at the moment, and drew up a. great flood of Power from the tremendous supply they had always told her she'd have. In mind she saw them, every Fyrd, in the valley and for miles around. She hated them, and loved them, and did what, was
necessary. She poured the Flame out of her as if opening a floodgate, until the valley was awash with it.
It was simple to gather up the minds of every Fyrd in the area and hold them all under the surface of that Flame until they drowned. Stop showing off, she told herself severely. You may drop dead in a moment, and there's business to be done here. Yet she laughed in pleasure as she thought it, and Hasai and the mdeihei went off in a thunderous accompaniment of hissing Dracon laughter. Whether she lived or died, she was going to enjoy this. She had waited a lifetime for it.
The Reavers and the Arlene mercenaries at the other side of the field were fleeing, and she stared across at them, angry and pleased. She could easily kill them all, but she knew Someone Who would prefer it otherwise, if at all possible.
So; she thought, and reached out in heart to feel them all, every last one, mind and soul together. The Rodmistresses had said it was impossible, but behind her she had a support-ing multitude who would testify otherwise if she asked them to. She was that multitude. She could contain universes.
Immersing herself in the minds of her enemies, she became them. Before they had a chance to recover from being her, she stepped to the cliff's edge and lifted Skadhwe. With it she drew four great slashing lines of Flame that fell onto the darkened field, and grew, and grew— Suddenly the ground within the lines was missing, replaced by five thousand different images blurred together — some of them of the Arlene countryside, or of Prydon city, some of them of the strange cold country beyond the mountains from which the Reavers came. Into the crammed-together vistas fell men and women who cried out in terror and were gone. She closed the door behind them with a word and a sweep of Skadhwe, and glanced up in thanks at the glowing eyes that hung over her. Then she turned south.
There, something dark stirred in its mantle of blackness and glared utter hatred at her. She looked back at It calmly, having loved It before, and unafraid to do once more what was necessary, She reached out to grasp the forces that Drag-ons could manipulate, and took one more step forward, right off the edge of the cliff. There she stood on empty air. "Come out and mmt us t/" you dare!" she cried, The song
winding around the words held in it the ultimate challenge: inescapable love. Behind her the mdeihei echoed the song in perilous harmonies. Trembling, Segnbora stood there while the darkness gathered Itself up into that terrible crushing wave she had seen before, full of screams and blood and ancient death. It rose higher and higher above her. She lifted up Skadhwe" s flaming length and stood her ground, letting her eyes sink into the Shadow's darkness, becoming It, accepting It for her own, her dark side, Her other Shadow. It trembled toward her — then gathered Itself down into a shuddering ball of fear and thwarted hatred, and vanished. The wind died abruptly, and the sky began to clear. Four thousand Darthenes stood in an empty field with no one left to fight. Segnbora took a last gasp of breath and walked back onto the cliff, beginning to feel mortal again for the first time since she had turned Skadhwe against herself. Behind a rock Eftgan lay breathing shallowly. Beside her, two forms struggled to sit up, helping each other. One of them had an arrow in him, but it didn't seem to be paining him much. As Segnbora came up to them, the taller of the two reached out to his loved and touched the arrow's protruding shaft. It vanished in a flicker of Fire, as did the place where it had gone in. She knelt beside them and laid Skadhwe over her knees— a burning shadow, a piece of the night set on Fire. They stared at it. "You did it," Freelorn whispered. "You did it!" She smiled at him. "All your fault, my liege." "But what did you do?" Herewiss was looking at her with such a mixture of joy and perplexity that she could have both laughed and cried at once. "I saw what you did to yourself," he said. "Why aren't you dead? And where did Cillmod and all those Reavers go?" "I sent them home, for the time being." She looked down at her surcoat, brushed at it. There was a neat tear where Skadhwe had gone in through cloth and mail, but that was all. The scar was a faint white seam just to one side of the night-mare's bite.
"I told you," said a great voice above her. "Dragons are quick to heal"
Silver-blue light fell about her as someone else bent low to look curiously at the place where the shadowblade had gone in. She gazed up at him — her shadow casting a shadow of his own now — and at last, the tears came. She reached up to the tremendous jaw as it dropped open, and very gently laid her hand in the Dragon's mouth, as she had feared to do, as she would never fear to do again. The jaws closed, and self joined with self.
"Now what, sda'sithesssck?"
"Now, mda'stihesssck," she said, gathering him close and laughing through the tears that fell on the sapphire hide, "there's a King to escort to his throne. Let's get busy!"
Sixteen
Some gilts are so great that the only way the recipient can express his gratitude is to immediately give the gift to some-one else. A dangerous business, this, among fickle human-kind, who often see such generosity as indicative of a
thoughtless heart. But in such a matter, do as your heart directs you. In the last reckoning, She is both giver and re-ceiver, acting both parts to increase the joy of both — and if humankind doesn't understand, She does.
(Charestics, 118)
They leaned on the walls and looked down into the dark streets of Darthis. No light burned anywhere — not so much as a hearthfire or candle or lamp. Below them the city dreamed in a silver pallor of moonlight, though there was a shifting and stirring in the Square under the walls of the Black Palace.
A few thousand people stood down there, quiet or murmur-ing, waiting for the Queen to strike the first sparks of the Midsummer needfire and distribute it among them. Most of those waiting were only concerned with their part in the festi-val — lighting the candles and lamps they carried from the new fire and racing through the city with it, spreading luck and laughter. But a few looked up toward the palace walls and stared fascinated at something strange.
Blue Fire flickered there, dancing about a long slender shape that seemed to be too dark to be a Rod. And there was another light there, a pair of silver-blue globes that looked uncannily like eyes staring downward. The more perceptive in the crowd had even noticed that the moonlight didn't fall on them. It was blocked away by a huge winged shape that seemed there when one looked away from it, and not there when one looked at it straight.
Whatever they saw, no one seemed particularly bothered by any of these oddnesses. This was, after all, Midsummer's Eve, when magic was loose in the world.
Down in the square, flint struck steel, and a spark nested in tinder and began to grow into flames. The cheering began. Viols and trumpets and kettledrums struck up a jubilant music that echoed off the walls, and effectively drowned out a
deeper music several stories up. "Hn'aa'se sithesssch mnek-kej-std untuhe au'lkhw't'dae," the music said, a voice like a trio of bass instruments playing a lazy, cheerful processional.
"Ae, mdaka'esssch," sang a softer voice, in a raspy alto. "We may as well enjoy the rest while we can. ."
"There won't be much of it," Hasai said, unfolding and folding his wings in resignation. He spoke in precognitive tense, but with good humor; the melody woven about his words said plainly that he preferred action to peace and quiet. "Arlen will be astir like thunderstorm air for months. If Gill— mod doesn't already know who was responsible for what hap-pened at Bluepeak, he will very shortly. The war with Darthen will soon open." "And the Queen forges her new crown tomorrow," Segn-bora groaned. A formal occasion first thing in the morning was the last thing she needed. "All I want is to sleep late."
"You may, if you please. I will teach you how, now that you have a sdaha's proper timesense. Will a month or so be enough, sitkesssch? *' The steps on the battlement were no surprise. Two hours ago Segnbora had remembered hearing them, and she had been waiting for them ever since. "If he did know," the shorter of the two approaching men said on reaching the top of the stairs, "it explains why he made the bastard Chancellor of the Exchequer." "To keep an eye on him?"
"Sounds like something my father might have done. This also explains how he managed to get the backing of the High Houses. But even if he can go into Lionhall, he doesn't know the Ritual, he's no Initiate — or if he is, he's messing up. Arlen is ready for rue now." Freelom and Herewiss looked strange out of surcoats and mail They leaned on the wall, one on either side of her, in softboots and britches and shirts. Herewiss looked up at the dark shape that blocked-but-didn't-block the Moon away. "How much are you there, Ihhw'Hasai?" "As much as my sdaha needs me to be. Or as I need to be. Since we're one, there's little difference. ."
"Where were you an hour or so ago?" Herewiss said to Segnbora. "Eftgan was looking for you. Wanted your help with the needfire, or something."
"I was flying," Segnbora said, nodding at the sky, Herewiss nodded soberly. She shared a gentle look with him, understanding now from her own experience how com-plete his underhearing must be, reaching even to others' most private thoughts. "I have to thank you," she said.
"You don't have to anything. You did it yourself." "So I did. And you mediated some of that doing with me, saw me into the situations I'd need to get where I am. You had little reason to give me such a gift, either," Segnbora said. "I tried to move in between you and your loved, a while back. You must have noticed." Herewiss nodded, looking grave. But not too much so, "These days, I don't let old reasons interfere with what I want to do. And maybe, even when I was angriest at you, maybe I saw something. ." "Who I was?" she said.
"Yes. A liaison. There's a whole race sharing the Kingdoms with us that not even the human Marchwarders understand properly — they have the language, but not the body that forms it. But there was more. You were a catalyst. And will continue to be. Things will be happening that need me— things I couldn't do without you and your Dragons. Likewise there are things you couldn't manage without me. I'm part of a solution. And more—"
She fell silent, nodding, already having hints of what the "more" was. This was a small problem. Sometimes the ahead-memories came too

THE DOOR INTO SHADOW
fast, and she had trouble deciding what to share, what to keep to herself.
She shrugged. The future was merely another kind of pre-sent to a Dragon, malleable as the past, part of the game. What mattered was what the player intended to be.
In one word, her newfound Name, she told them, "We'll keep your secret," Freelorn said just above a whis-per.
Segnbora smiled at them, knowing that the One she meant to hear her Name had heard it through them, then waved
ffood night, and headed for the stairs. Along the upper para-pet, Hasai lazily put out a single forefoot — all he needed to do to keep up with
her.
"No more words?" he said. "What should I say?"
Slowly Segnbora lowered her head to gaze back down the parapet; where Freelorn took back from Herewiss the lovers cup she had left them, and drained it-and found it still full. "That,"Hasai said. "Forever."
Lost between laughter and tears of joy, Segnbora nodded, reached out to her mdaha, and led him off into their future, and to bed. T/ME, CALENDARS, AND RELATED SUBJECTS
moftorw o/i/iDMiddle Kingdoms' world around its Sun match those of Earth around Sol (except for negligible variations, such as those caused by sister planets missing in their solar system and present in ours). Their year is therefore the same length as ours—365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes, 48-odd seconds. Though in Segnbora's time clocks still have only hour hands, the astronomers of the Kingdoms have evolved their own methods of handling the year, and the little pieces of it that tend to pile up as time passes and throw calendars out of alignment with the seasons.
Both Arlen and Darthen use a 360-day "year" of four 90-day "seasons" that correspond to our winter, spring, summer, and fall. Days are counted straight
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through each season, and spoken of as "the fifth of Winter," "the thirty-eighth of Summer, " and so forth. In addition, the First of each season is always a major holiday, tied to solstice or equinox — Opening Night for Winter (the only one of the holidays that doesn't fall directly on solstice or equinox), Maiden's Day for Spring, Midyear's Day for Summer, and the Harvest Festival (either Lion's Day or Eagle's Day) for Fall. The five remain-ing days are intercalated and belong to no season: they are placed between the end of Fall and the beginning of Winter, and during these cold days at the bottom of the year, the Dreadnights as they 're called, no enterprise is begun, no childnaming or marriage celebrated. They are the Shadow's nights, and unlucky. Every fourth year a sixth intercalary day (in Arlen Endethne, "Lady's Day," in Darthen AerrudЈj, "the Goddess 'Joke") is added between the Dreadnights and Opening Night, to deal with the need for a leap-year day.
However, this still leaves a significant fraction of time out of the reckoning. The addition of the leap-day to compensate for the 5h-48m-48s leftover at year's end is in fact an overcompensation. If left uncorrected, each year will be 11.2 minutes short. This may not sound like much, but in our world in the past has led to awful misalignment of the calendar year with the seasons — the fint day of spring falling in December, for example. But this backward drift of dates is preventable by any number of methods. The astronomers of the Kingdoms found that the eleven-minute deficit will amount to a full day's error
in 128y-208d-13h-38m-21.125s. Therefore, once every 128 years, that 208th day (which by our calendar would be July 19th) is dropped from the year entirely, or rather converted to July 20th; that date in turn becomes the 29th of Summer rather than the 28th, and is called the Festival of the Lost Day. (Thefestival is devoted to pranks, pratfalls, drinking sprees, and attempts to lose things, usually unwanted ones. There are also lying contests, with prizes for the best explanation of where the Lost Day went.) This system of adjustment runs independently of that for leap-year days. Though it would probably be more efficient to combine the adjustment systems, as our culture does, the Kingdoms' astronomers are quick to point out that this would mean one less holiday.
It is quite true that even this adjustment is not totally sufficient to keep the calendar in line with the seasons and the Sun. There is still an unadjusted error that makes the year too long 631 0.0003 day, which will pile up to three days in each 10,000 years. However, in the words of Talia d' Calath, the Grand Royal Astronomer to King Berad ofDarthen, "It is possible to worry too much, too far in advance. " The Dragons have promised to remind human beings to insert another one-day intercalary day every 3300 years — though there is still disagreement over why they laughed so hard when they promised. There are of course many minor local holidays not mentioned here. But neither Arlene nor Darthene calendars include anything like weeks or months. One may indicate a given day by season and number: or say "four days ago," or' 'six days from now," or "a month and three days," etc. ' 'Months" (actually the word is isten in both languages, very like the Greek Af Kafiacr which we translate as "lichtgang" or "Moonreturn") are sometimes broken down to 29 days for counting purposes, but this is rare. Mostly a month is reckoned from a phase of the Moon to its next occurrence, most frequently full to full. This might be expected in a largely agrarian culture, where the times of planting are important. But to the people of the Kingdoms, the Moon is the living vigil of the Goddess, mirroring Her changes in its own as it slides from Maiden's slim crescent to Bride's and Mother's white full to Crone's waning sickle to Moon-dark perilous and hidden; and for the most part people have a fondness for the Moon and enjoy reckoning by it, without resource to numbers.
Astronomers — and, of course, sorcerers and people with the blue Fire — are cognizant of such lunar functions as node crossings and regression of nodes, apogee and perigee and advance of the perigee point, librations and nutations, and eclipses both lunar and solar, such being important to their work. But (and very sensibly) no one has ever particularly cared about what the lunar calendar does in relation to the solar one. The only real notice taken of alignment between the two is in mention of Nineteen-Years' Night, when the Moon is full on Opening Night and wreaking with sorcery or Fire is particularly potent.
There is a tendency for Moon cycles to be referred to by name, the names
j fiering from area to area. For example, the first full Moon of Spring, and the days following it from waning to dark to new crescent to full again, is ually called the "Song Moon" in Arlen, while some Darthenes call it the лUnicorn's Moon," and some others, the "Maiden's Moon" or the "Mad Moon " Special note is taken of the Harvest Moon in most places, both because fthe shortening of its rising time and in memory of the bloody harvest cut at Bluepeak during one of its risings an age ago; the full Moon that follows the file:///G|/rah/Diane%20Duane%20-%20Tales%20Of%20The%20Five%2002%20-%20The%20Door%20Into%20Shadow.htm (153 of 155) note 22

Harvest Moon is always the Lion's or Eagle's Moon, in Earn's and Healhra 's memory.
Since the memory of the times before the Catastrophe has largely been lost, years are counted from the coming of the Dragons and the destruction of the Dark, and noted by number and the abbreviation for pai Ajnedare deruwin, "after the Arrival." Example: Segnbora's birthday is Spring the 57th, 2098 p.a.d.
ON DRAGON ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY
The Dragons are perhaps purposely vague about their very beginnings. "Thinking about a time before their own consciousness," d 'Welcaen reports, "makes them nervous." But the earliest Dracon memories recall a time when the Homeworld was populated by plant-analogs and other life forms. There was a food chain, and Dragons had use for the internal organs which now exist only in extremely debased vestigial forms. Somewhere along the line — possibly due to changes in the Homeworld's orbit, or in its star's characteristics — the planet's seas began to evaporate, and its atmosphere to strip off. The Dragons report this as taking many thousands of their lifetimes. Converting this time to human standards is difficult, and gives answers ranging from one to six million years. This may seem like quite a while, but it isn't really, for an organism whose average generation is from four to six thousand years. The Dragons had to adapt in a hurry to the changes in
their environment.
Already silicon-boron based — and what their atmosphere and "seas" con-sisted of is still a matter for conjecture — the Dragons' evolution went in the most efficient possible direction. Their anatomy began adjusting itself toward extreme lightness, for maximum efficiency in soaring in search of food. As food got scarcer due to increased irradiation, wild mutations got more com-mon — including one that became most successful: the alteration of silane rings in the black wing-membranes, so that they became in effect giant solar cells, using the already-existing neural pathways for conduction of generated bioelectricity. Dragons born with this mutation, needing no normal food, thrived and multiplied, and soared further and further sunward for food. The increased irradiation induced more gene changes and mutations in brain physiology, so that the "highflyers" found themselves able to manipulate "force" — magnetic fields, gravity wave-Jields, and other instrumentalities less classifiable to humans. Organs used for digestion, respiration, and elimina-tion slowly went vestigial, until finally the "late model" Dragon was left— an efficient, flying energy-storage machine, spaceworthy, tolerant of extreme high and low temperatures (as had become commonplace on the Homeworld),
and able to express that energy as Dragon/ire and use it as tool and wea-pon.
The reasons for that particular manifestation are debatable, but dWelcaen suggests that Dragons feel about their mouths as humans feel about their hands. Dracon psychology says that language is the primary means of effective sur-vival: which perhaps explains why, even after their development of under-speech, the Dragons never gave up communication by way of vocal speech. Even their tongues still work after all these centuries — though they're not necessary: Dracon sound generation long ago went over to non-acoustic mech-anisms like those of whales. Fluid-Jilled or stressed-solid-Jilled cavities stimu-lated by "muscle" contraction, or catalytic chemical reactions, or neural/mem-brane synergies, or all three, allow Dragons to communicate with precision and stunning variation in almost any medium except empty space, and also permit the super-prolonged hisses, three— to eighteen-tone chords, and choral-verbal speech for which they 're best known.
Dragonfire, according to dWelcaen, is strictly a "psi" phenomenon allied to "manipulation of force, " and as complicated for a Dragon as breathing for a human — a Dragonet can flame before it can talk. The skill is almost wholly a constructive one these days; the times when a Dragon would have to melt several tons of lead-bearing stone over itself to protect it from a stars term, or blast its way out of the covering again, are long past. A. Dracon name for the Sun that shines on the Middle Kingdoms is hfa-Aass'te're, "the Shallows" — a pale, cozy little star, tame and safe compared to the mad fire of the Homestar in its last days. These days Drag&nfire is for show, and for nn's'hraile, in a particularly heated argument; for imilding; and, when words fail at last, for mating fights, when hottest Jire decides who will reproduce, and who will go very suddenly mdahaih.