“I will rise,” the dragon said.
Dorrin’s view expanded; her breath caught as the dragon lifted higher and higher, then moved toward one rim of rock. What had been a vast empty bowl—too wide to see more than part of its rim—was now a lake, rising visibly. At the rim, streams of water poured down, brown torrents full of sand and rocks. Muddy water swirled into the clear that had risen from below.
“It is a great transformation,” the dragon said. “This place was once a lake and is a lake again, and this lake had an outlet to the sea, a mighty river … and that river will flow again, and the sea itself may rise higher.”
“That much water?” Dorrin asked. She could not imagine it.
“It might be. If every water stone the magelords made transformed at once … it might be that much water.” The dragon sounded more thoughtful than alarmed. “It has been a long quiet time while the magelords slept and the transformations ceased. Now it is more interesting. It might even be more wise.”
Dorrin stared out at the falling water, the flowing water, for what seemed days long, watching the water rip at the edge of the cliffs and rocks crumble. The dragon moved from time to time, giving her different views of the deluge … the ruins where she had stayed falling, sliding, dragged over the receding cliff to disintegrate in the churning waters of the great bowl. She hoped the people had escaped. Another side of the bowl, where black cliffs did not crumble as the waters climbed higher, so that a sheer black wall rose above the floor. The far side, where the rising water tore at and finally destroyed a natural dam of tumbled rock and went racing along four men high at the front, seeking the sea.
How long it rained and how long she watched, Dorrin could not tell. She slept and woke again; the sound of the water, the sight of it falling and falling, flowing and flowing, numbed her senses. Eventually she became aware that the rain had stopped and that it had been stopped for some time. She was standing on wet ground, with the dragon’s snout not two strides away and one of its eyes staring at her.
“Did you expect to live through your adventure?” the dragon asked.
“No,” Dorrin said.
“You did not think the waters of life would save you?”
“Not once they were nearly drowning me,” Dorrin said. “But you came.”
“Yes, but I am not a tool for humans to wield,” the dragon said. “Your judgment was wise—no one could live through all your tasks. Wisdom is rewarded with wisdom’s gifts, which are not what the recipient expects.”
“Am I dead, then?” Dorrin asked.
“Not a wise question,” the dragon said. “But no, you are not dead yet.” Then the mouth opened, and Dorrin saw the true dragonfire and knew she would be consumed.
Chapter Thirty-six
Hoorlow, Fintha
Marshal-General Arianya and her escort rode through the hot, dusty forest, its shade frayed by drought, leaves turning brown instead of yellow or orange. Usually it was cooler this time of year, making the trek to the Hoorlow Fair a pleasant diversion. That, it still was, especially with the good news from the south that the Gnarrinfulk gnomes did not blame her for the mage-hunters’ behavior. Donag’s report of Arvid dealing with the rogue Marshal startled her—the weapon was not standard Girdish issue—but after all, he was what he was, and now he was using his talents for Gird.
As she rode out of the forest, she saw Farfields Grange in the near distance, with the flags marking the “battlefield” already up and shifting in the light breeze. To her surprise, no delegation from the grange appeared to meet her.
Nearer, she saw that grange and barton empty, gates and doors open, despite the pole flying a blue flag that should have indicated its Marshal’s presence. Beyond, in the city itself, streets were also empty. The merchants’ wagons that should have been parked in the field set aside for them during the fair weren’t there, and as she and the others rode toward the bridge, no one came out to see who had arrived.
Her skin prickled. Something was not at all right.
The bridge arched over the Hoor, and as she reached the higher point of the arch, she saw that only a trickle of water ran in it. The drought. Would rain come again? Nothing in the blank blue sky, dust-colored around the edges, promised rain. Ahead, down the main street that led to the larger market square, a crowd of people blocked her view of Grainmarket Grange, though she could see the roof with its blue banner. More people were pouring into the crowd from side streets, and whatever was going on looked too much like the mobs in Fin Panir.
“Trouble?” asked High Marshal Donag.