The Last Dragon Chronicles #4: The Fire Eternal (2 page)

I
t was many years since Thoran had watched the winter die. But there was little else a bear could do in these months, except shelter, rest, and wait for the long night to reach its end. Four days ago it had. He had seen the sun returning like a distant bird, its solar wings reaching out far across the north, setting
the sea ice alight for miles. Each morning thereafter he had watched it rise a little higher in the sky, tinting the horizon with its pale shades of orange. Warmth. Spring. The promise of life.

But it was not in a moment like this when they came.

The sky was still half-lit. Moody. Gray. A blizzard was stirring up in restless circles, halfheartedly sighing as it ripped through his fur. Those
parts of his body given mortal senses — the ears, the eyes, even the black-tipped snout — were all beginning to fail him now, so he did not hear the bears or scent them or see, but rather
knew,
in the ways of the shaman, they were close. He was dying naturally, growing weak, yet his instincts warned him there was something out there, something worth clinging to these shreds of life for. Not for
him the heart stopping on a long bed of ice, nor the frosted eye staring at an unchanging sky. He was Thoran, creature of legend. Something wonderful was coming. Something strange.

There were three of them, approaching from the permanent ice to the north. The two bears on the outside came slugging through first, flanking nothing but a cloud of swirling ice. One was a fighting bear, heavy,
in
his prime. The other was younger, slender, thoughtful. A Teller’s son if ever there was one. That singular expression of awe in his eyes had as much to do with history as it did with fear.

The visitors drew to a halt, blowing hard. They sat down, keeping a respectful distance. Thoran let out a moderate growl. He knew it was not their purpose to challenge him, but appearances and rituals had to
be observed. The fighting bear offered up a cynical snort. The Teller looked sideways, into the mist. He shuddered as the third bear floated out of it.

Thoran’s weak heart pounded with relief. Astonishing.
Him.
Just as he had hoped. Only now the bear walked with magnificent grace, as if the ice were his servant and carrying his weight, not merely supporting it. The limp, long ago caused by a
bullet of lead lodged deep in the shoulder, was gone, healed, an incidental nuisance. Confidence shone from the once-troubled eyes. Every hair of his thick pelt glistened with power. Even the snowstorm whipping around his ears was like a child, an ice cub, begging for attention. The ice was
his plaything, his to command. Here was Ingavar, Lord of the Arctic.

“You have walked a long way, nanuk,”
said Thoran, for on the last occasion these bears had met they had been on the other side of the world.

The fighting bear stiffened, visibly outraged by the informal greeting. But it was the Teller that Ingavar chose to glance at, as if to say, “Remember this. Remember how this bear addressed me as a cub, for in many ways that is what I am to him, his novice.”

Ingavar swung his head forward
in an arc. “This is your homeland,” he said, looking west, though no trace of rock or glacier could be seen.

Thoran opened his claws, feeling the wind run between them. Cold. “Where else would an old bear come to die?” He spread his paws and pushed himself upright, wobbling slightly as he tried to stand. The curves at his sides fell inward, not out. The Teller gulped, his empathy obvious. The
fighting bear stared ahead, hard and unmoved.

Ingavar said, “I need your help.”

The wind moaned and seemed to gather in Thoran’s chest. “The North has changed — and I am not the bear I was.”

“Nor I,” said Ingavar.

The Teller shuddered again.

“This is Avrel,” said his master, indicating the Teller. “Kailar to my right. They are here to witness a new beginning.”

Thoran put his head back and
stared at the sky. It was shifting, making shapes from the cloud: narwhal, seal, walrus, fox. His forepaws clenched and grated the ice, audibly catching in the brittle surface. “Where have you been, nanuk?” he asked.

Avrel noted what he thought was a tremor of betrayal.

“Away,” said Ingavar with measured reassurance. And in every reflection of his deep brown eyes he knew that Thoran saw an image
of a fire star.

“The north is dying,” the old bear said. There was a drumming in his ears, a song of the Arctic. Above him, the sky made pictures of The Men.

Ingavar raised his snout to the wind. “I have come to free you from the burden of caring for it.”

The sky darkened then and Avrel caught his breath. A light had appeared in the ice beneath Ingavar. It was at once both blue and colorlessly
blue. He watched it spread into his master’s body, turning him from flesh and bone into … what? He looked across at Kailar as if to say, “Do you
see
this? A legend coming to life? The fire that melts no ice is upon us.”

But Kailar clearly had. He was edging back, head lowered, physically shaken. He checked around his paws. The ice there was sound.

Thoran tilted his head and stared into the radiating
eyes again, looking for something that perhaps could not be seen. “When I was imprisoned in this mortal body, I heard the wind whisper that you had burned in the tears of Godith. Are you really the bear I knew?”

Ingavar padded slowly forward, creating footprints of fire in the snow. On his forehead there now appeared a telling mark, three lines the North knew as the mark
of Oomara. He turned
his head sideways, scissoring his jaws. White flames danced on his tongue as he spoke. One word was all he uttered. “Sometimes.”

“Then I am yours to command,” said Thoran.

And the icefire leapt from Ingavar’s mouth, into the jaws of his old companion.

Avrel, remembering all he had journeyed and all he had seen, now added the following to his stories to Tell: He saw how the body of the ice bear
Thoran burst into flame, then broke into a blizzard of snowflakes and sparks that set themselves into the wind and were gone. And he noted, keenly, how the heart of the blaze appeared to move out of the body of Thoran into the body of his master, Ingavar, and what change took place in Ingavar because of this. He saw the morning sun rise. He heard the ice moan. And he witnessed the brightest of
auroras above. A spirit-dance. A passing. A changing of Ways. And when the lights had settled and all was darkness and spinning cold again, Ingavar, standing with his back to them, said, “Do you know of an island called the Tooth of Ragnar?”

The fighting bear, Kailar, was disabled by sickness, the last contents of his stomach in a pool by his feet. So Avrel answered for the two of them, saying,
“Lord, the Tooth was destroyed by …” He dared not go on. Some tongues said that the island had been brought down by Ingavar
himself.

Ingavar nodded. “In that vicinity, Kailar will find a raven, a bird frozen in a block of ice. He is to free its head and feet but not its body. When he has done this, he will have it
walk
to me.”

“And me, Lord?” said Avrel. “What am I to do?”

“You are the Teller
of Ways,” said Ingavar. “You will walk with me.” And he turned and a legend was instantly recorded.

He was Ingavar. Ice bear. Bringer of fire.

Ruler of the North.

And his once brown eyes were blue.

P
eople said it was a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of place. A narrow shop, barely three times the width of its doorway, sandwiched between a beauty salon and a larger shop selling computer supplies. Zanna had bought it on a sudden impulse shortly after graduating from Scrubbley College, when the royalties from David’s books had amounted to a sum that demanded she make them work
for her. One night she had come home later than usual, sat down in the kitchen with Alexa on her knee, and said to Liz, “I want to run a shop.”

“Really?” Liz had turned to her, sounding thrilled.

Unlike Lucy, who had looked up from her homework and said, “Why?” in a cursory, offhand manner.

Zanna said, “It’s something that I’ve always wanted to do. I was passing that real estate agent’s, Burroughs,
in town, saw an ad for it, went in, and got the sheet. It’s on Main Street. It’s perfect. I’d easily have enough money to put down a deposit.”

Liz patted her hand. “That’s a super idea. What do you plan to sell?”

“Anything ‘new agey.’ Crystals. Incense. Semiprecious stones. Gothic jewelry — I’d really love to make some. Books. Cards. Even some bags and clothing, perhaps.”

“A magic shop?” said
Lucy, twisting her nose.

“I’d prefer ‘place of enchantment,’” said Zanna.

Lucy gave a
hmph.
“Well, at least it’s not your hippie veggie stuff.” She glared at the bag of nuts Zanna was snacking from. “How can anyone eat so many nuts?”

“Squiwels,” said Alexa. She kicked her feet and smiled upward at her mom.

“Hmm,”
answered Zanna, giving her a hug. “They eat
lots
of nuts, don’t they? The shop
is close to the
library gardens. We might have squirrels lining up outside — if we decide to take it on, of course.”

This last remark was addressed toward Liz, but it was Arthur, feeling his way into the kitchen, who asked the question, “Why wouldn’t you?”

Zanna took a deep breath. She glanced at Lucy, who scowled and pretended she was focused on her homework. “I’d need help, looking after Lexie.”

“Are you a nutbeast, Mommy?” Alexa said.

Lucy paused, closed her eyes, then went on writing.

“Not a problem,” said Liz.

“I don’t like to put upon you. You’re all so good to me as it is.”

Liz cupped a hand around the back of Zanna’s head. “Sweetheart, it would be a joy,” she said.

“Do you have a name for the shop?” asked Arthur.

“Yes,” said Zanna, brightly. “The Healing Touch, because everything
in the shop will have therapeutic potential. I’m going to take some courses as well. I’d
like to offer people aromatherapy and reflexology — to start.”

“Feet?” said Lucy. “You want to touch feet?”

“Honey, don’t, you’ll fall over,” Zanna said to Alexa as she tried to lean forward to touch her own toes. “Reflexology isn’t always done on feet. It could be hands or ears.” (Lexie held her ears.)

“It’s still gross,” Lucy muttered.

“It is not,” said Liz. “You have my blessing, Zanna. I think it’s wonderful.”

“A great adventure,” Arthur added, smiling.

“Thank you,” said Zanna. “I appreciate that. Erm, there is one other thing I’d like to run by you.” She waited till she had Liz’s gaze again. “I want to sell tinctures, made from flowers.”

Liz glanced at Alexa, who was curling her hair
in rings around her fingers. “You want to involve Gretel?”

They both glanced at Zanna’s special dragon, who was sitting on the table, casually jabbing an orange with a toothpick. Gretel was regarded (mostly by
herself) as the most powerful dragon in the Pennykettle household. She had the ability to make potions from flowers, anything from a sleeping potion to a hay fever cure.

“She can’t,” protested
Lucy. “She can’t use Gretel’s powers.”

“Hrrr!”
said Alexa.

On top of the fridge, the listening dragon frowned and noted that the David child had literally said, “Hrrr.”

In a level but guarded tone Liz said, “She can — if it’s done for the right reasons, of course.”

“But she’s a —” Lucy bit her tongue, an act that only made Zanna glower.

“Go on, Lucy, say it. You know you want to. Witch? Sibyl?
Spawn of Gwilanna? Mad, bad, dangerous to know?”

“Zanna,” said Arthur in a calming voice.

“All right,” Liz chimed in. “Everyone calm down. I do not like being a referee in my own kitchen.”

“But —?”

“Lucy, that’s enough.” Liz’s voice was definite. “Zanna, you know I can’t stop you from doing this, but please remember you have a great responsibility to use Gretel wisely and to keep us out of
the public eye.”

“Is Gurlanna a dragon?” Alexa asked.

“And that’s just one reason why,” Liz said.

Zanna nodded and answered her daughter’s question. “No,” she said quietly, placing a protective kiss on her head. “Forget I said that. Mommy was annoyed.” She looked again at Liz. “I wouldn’t ever let you down.”

Liz filled a glass with water and raised it in a toast. “Then we wish you well. Here’s
to success, and The Healing Touch….”

And that was how it started. In the months that followed, Zanna’s life had been a turmoil of phone calls, deliveries, and general moving in. Fortunately, there were barely any structural changes to be made. The previous owner had run the property as a small gift
shop and had passed it on with all the fixtures in place. Pine shelving racks occupied the two
long walls and a glass display counter faced the door. Behind it, curtained off by bamboo strips, were two utility areas that served as stock room, preparation room, and kitchen. The two rooms upstairs were bare and dusty, but over the next three years, as her turnover increased and her reputation for producing effective “lotions and potions” expanded, Zanna was able to decorate throughout and turn
them into her consulting area, for clients requiring her unique brand of healing.

And so it came to be that one March morning, some five years after David Rain’s disappearance, the door chimes tinkled and a young man with short-cropped, salon-cut hair walked in. Zanna was sitting on her stool behind the counter, resetting a tray of earrings at the time. “Hi,” she said. “Feel free to browse.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling, but not at her. His voice had traces of a soft Scottish accent. He looked left and right, taking in most of the shop in one sweep. He pored over the card rack and dream catchers a moment,
before a large block of amethyst caught his eye. He weighed it in his hand and put it back. “Wasn’t she a maiden turned to stone by the goddess Diana — something to do with protecting
her from tigers?”

“Sorry?” said Zanna.

“Amethyst,” he said. “In the Greek legend, Dionysus wept tears of wine and stained her purple. Something like that. She makes a beautiful crystal, don’t you think? Mind you, I have to confess that whenever I see stones cut and polished like this they always remind me of the middle of strawberries. Or those kiwi fruits, sliced in half.”

Zanna put the tray
into the display case and locked it. “Let me guess: You’re the mystery customer from the Department of Crystallography, come to make sure I know what I’m selling?”

He laughed at that and looked at her directly. He wore wide rectangular glasses with frames as black as his hair and stubble. His eyes were quick and intelligent. Blue. “My name’s Tam. Tam Farrell. I hope you’re Suzanna?”

“Well, if
I’m not, I’ll be arrested for fraud,” she said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Farrell?”

He swung to his left, eyeing a shelf of homeopathic medicines. “I hear you do wonderful things with herbs?”

In the back room, working on a potpourri mixture, Gretel pricked her ears and paused to listen.

“Flowers, actually. It’s not the same thing. I am a trained herbalist, but I prefer to make up tinctures
based on ancient natural remedies. Is there something I might be able to help you with?”

“Necks,” he said. “How are you with them?”

“How many are we talking about?”

“Just this one, here.” He tapped his shoulder. “I do a lot of computer work.” He wiggled his fingers to indicate a keyboard. “Always getting stiff.”

“Then it’s possibly just your posture, the way you’re sitting.”

“Tried all that,”
he said, looking around. “Chair height. Rests. None of it seems to make a difference. I
get headaches, too. I work long hours. I don’t believe the spin my doctor gives me. That’s why I’m here — on the trail of something … different.”

Zanna reached for her datebook. “I’d have to book you in for a consultation.”

“And what would that involve?”

“I take your information, do a little basic reflexology,
make an assessment. If I think you need a tincture, I’ll have one made up.”

He hummed indecisively. “Sounds sort of deep. I was hoping for something over-the-counter, actually.”

“Then there’s a drugstore just down the road,” she said.

“Ouch.” He reeled, smiling, with a hand across his chest, giving Zanna a chance to take him in fully. T-shirt. Jacket. Designer jeans. Casual, but street-smart.
Messenger bag. Trendy.

“That was my ego hurting, not my neck,” he offered. “Didn’t mean to offend. How much do you charge for a consultation?”

Zanna considered his question a moment. His humility was genuine, she was pretty sure of that. “Give me your right hand.”

He offered it, palm up.

She pressed the tip of his little finger, working down it with short intense bouts of pressure.

“What’s
this you’re doing?”

“Zone therapy,” she answered, leaning forward. “Each organ of your body is represented by a specific point on your hands. By feeling the points I can detect which parts of you have a blocked energy flow. If I massage the blocks, I should be able to stimulate the production of nutrients and blood to those zones.”

He nodded, taking the opportunity to look around a little more.
“How did you get into this? I mean, where does a young woman go to learn the science of ancient medicines?”

“Scrubbley College, two evenings a week,” she muttered, looping her hair behind her ear. She pressed her thumb hard into the center of his palm.

“Ow, that hurt!”

“
Hmm
. That area needs attention.”

“Is that my neck zone?”

“No, your liver zone,” she said. “I can’t find any problems in
the region of your neck.”

He sighed and held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I give in. That’s pretty impressive. I confess, I was testing you about the neck thing.”

She crossed her arms. “And why would you do that?”

He smiled and tilted his head a little. “Maybe we can talk about it over dinner?”

In the kitchen, Gretel scrunched a nettle in her paw.

“Are you asking me out?” Zanna’s volume
was raised, her tone incredulous.

He glanced at her hands. “Don’t see a shiny ring.”

“I’m spoken for.” Her tone was as flat as a wall.

“Absolutely no chance?”

“None. I have a daughter.”

The blue eyes flashed. “Daughter? Really? Just a baby or —?”

“She’s almost five,” said Zanna. “And we seem to have gone off the subject somewhat. If you’re here to flirt, you’re wasting your time. If you’ve
got something you genuinely wish to consult me about, then make an appointment. Otherwise, have a nice day.”

Tam pushed back his glasses. His tongue made one swift tour of his lips. “Consultation. Right. Can I think about it?”

“Naturally.”

He nodded and glanced at her arm. Other than her bangles, it was bare to the elbow. On her fair skin, three distinct welts stood out. “That’s a pretty nasty
scar.”

Zanna lowered her sleeve. “Playground accident.”

“Right,” he said again, and stepped back a pace. As he did, his gaze dipped toward the glass display case. “How much are the dragons?”

“Thirty dollars each.”

“Did you make them?”

“They’re done by a local artist.”

“They’re cute,” he said. (In the back room, Gretel winced.) “My, uh, niece would like those.”

“They’re very popular,” said
Zanna, trying to retain a professional air. “I’ve got one myself.”

Tam stood up, tapping his fingertips together. “I’ll take him at the back, with the green soppy eyes.”

Zanna unlocked the case. She took out the dragon and let him inspect it. “That’s a female, actually, from an exclusive run of twenty.”

“Gudrun,”
he read from the tag on its tail. “Is that Norse?”

“No, it’s from the south side
of Scrubbley.”

He chuckled and put the dragon down on the counter. “Thirty bucks, right?” He opened his wallet and counted out the cash. “I suppose you could say you’d given me a ‘gud run’ for my money?”

Zanna rang up the sale.

While she covered Gudrun in two layers of bubble wrap and chose a suitable box, Tam asked, “So is that where you make your tinctures, through there?”

Zanna glanced
over her shoulder at the bamboo strips. “Yes. Why?”

“You said if I needed one you’d have it made up, as if you order them. Or was that just a slip of the tongue?”

More questions. Zanna broke a piece of tape off the dispenser. “You’re a very inquisitive man, Mr. Farrell.”

He gave a blameless shrug. “Always had a curious streak. Good thing I’m not a cat. I’d be long dead, I guess.”

That produced
a twitch in one corner of her mouth.

“Sorry, I think I might have amused you.”

Zanna allowed herself to smile properly. He was smart, she had to give him that. She sealed the box and handed it over. “I have an assistant who helps me, parttime. She makes up the tinctures. Will that be all?”

“I’ll think about that consultation,” he said, and finally he turned away, but not for long. “Oh, poetry.
Almost forgot.”

“Poetry?” she repeated, looking blank. He flipped his satchel open and took out a flyer. “Allandale’s book shop. They have readings in their upstairs room on Sunday evenings. Nice atmosphere. Good people. Tea and nibbles.” He put the flyer on the counter and pushed it toward her. “Thought you might like it.” He nodded at the wall behind her head.