"The wise man," the dragon rumbled, "does not play games with dragons."
With an effort, Ushahin levered himself upward to sit on the bench in the skiff's stern and rested, arms braced on his knees. A strange exhilaration filled him at finding himself alive and whole. He took an experimental breath, conscious of the air filling his lungs, of having lungs to fill with air. "True," he said, finding the experiment a success. "But I am not a man, and I have been accused of being mad, but never wise. Elder Sister…" he bowed from the waist, "… forgive my folly."
"Ssso." The dragon eyed him with amusement. "It has gained sssome wisdom."
"Some." Ushahin wrapped his arms around his knees and returned the dragon's gaze. "Calanthrag the Eldest, Mother of Dragons. I am a fool, indeed. But tell me, why here, in the heart of the Delta?"
Sulfurous fumes engulfed him as the dragon snorted. "Child of three rasses, ssson of none. Not a Man, yet ssstill a man. You deny your own desire. Do you deny the power here, where Sssatorisss Third-Born arose?"
"No, Mother." Ushahin coughed once, waving away fumes. He shook his head gravely, feeling his lank silver-gilt hair brush his cheeks. "Not the power. Only the desire."
"Why?" The dragon's voice was tender with cunning. "Anssswer."
She had let him call her mother, had not denied it! No one had done as much since the Grey Dam Sorash, whose heir had castigated him. Ushahin hugged the thought to him and tried to answer honestly. "Because I despise Haomane's Children above all else, for their cowardice in forsaking me and my begetting," he said. "And I will not allow my flesh to become the vehicle by which they receive Lord Satoris' Gift."
"Ssso." The sinuous neck flattened, its spikes lying low as the iron-grey head hovered above him. "You glimpssse the Great Pattern?"
"It may be," Ushahin said humbly. "I do not know."
Smoke puffed from the dragon's nostrils as Calanthrag the Eldest, Mother of Dragons, laughed. "Then tie up your boat," she said, "and I will tell you."
The bark of the palodus tree was silver-grey, smooth as skin. Ushahin poled the skiff underneath its vast canopy. There was a rope knotted through an iron ring in its prow. He laid down his pole and knelt on the forward bench to loop the rope around the trunk of the palodus, securing the skiff. Mud-crabs scuttled among the thrusting roots of the palodus, and waterbugs skittered here and there on the surface of the water. The setting sun gilded the swamp, lending a fiery glory to the murky waters. Some yards away, the charred skeleton of a mangrove shed quiet flakes of ash, long past the smouldering stage. How many hours had he lost, falling through the dragon's mind?
It didn't matter.
Overhead, the first pale stars of twilight began to emerge and the ravens of Darkhaven fluffed their feathers, settling on their perches and calling to one another with sleepy squawks. All was quiet in the Delta, and at its heart, a pair of yellow-green eyes hung like lanterns in the dimness, hinting at the enormous bulk beyond. Ushahin gave one last tug on the bilge-sodden rope, and smiled. "Mother of Dragons." He bowed to her, then sat, feeling the skiff rock a little beneath his shifting weight. "I am listening."
"In the beginning," said Calanthrag the Eldest, "there was Urulat…"
"PULL!" SPEROS SHOUTED.
The Gulnagel groaned, hauling on the ropes. They were heroic figures in the red light of the setting sun, broad backs and shoulders straining, the muscles in their bulging haunches a-quiver. The chunk of rock they labored to haul moved a few paces on its improvised skid, built of a dented Fjel buckler and rope salvaged from the Well. It hadn't been on a pulley, either; just a straight length of it, impossible to draw. He'd had to send one of the Fjel back down the Well to sever it and retrieve as much as was possible.
"Pull!" Speros chanted. "Pull, pull, pull!"
With grunts and groans, they did. It moved, inch by inch, grinding across the hard-packed sand. He joined his efforts to theirs at the end, rolling it manually to the lip of the Well. It wasn't easy. The standing monoliths of Stone Grove had shattered when toppled, but even the pieces into which they had broken were massive. Atop the mound of the Well, Speros stood shoulder to shoulder with the Gulnagel, heaving.
"All right, lads," he panted, loosening the rope with dirty fingers. "Now push."
It fell with a satisfying crash, landing only a few yards below. Their long labors showed results at last; the shaft of the Well was well and truly clogged. Speros flopped onto the cooling sand, giving his aching muscles a chance to recover.