《The White Dragon》Prologue: Beneath the Ice
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A blink of an eye.
Another year.
Above the white dragon was a sheet of ice so thick that it could support a mountain. Somewhere far, far beyond the ice the sun came and went. As did the moon and the stars. Songs. The stars were singing gentle lullabies except that their cadences did not quite match one another and when their rhythms clustered together in a concatenation of reinforced waves they half woke her. When such – decades long – moments passed, the songs of the stars drew apart once more and she was soothed back to a deep sleep.
Wings unfolded, floating in near complete darkness, in freezing seawater, she felt the passage of time in the subtle warming of the sea and the distant movements of spirits so powerful their motion could be felt all the way across impossible, celestial distances.
Only when a seal, or shark strayed close enough that she could capture its mind did the white dragon stir. Enough at least to have it swim into her maw. Then she ate. And slept again.
In her dreams, she flew. Perched on the top of Sagarmatha, the highest mountain in the world, she gave a roar of freedom and pleasure, then dove through the thin air like a bolt of lightning. Wings near to tearing, cold air trying to force open her mouth and eyes, she pulled out of the dive just above banks of sparkling, pure snow. Then, relishing her power, she beat her wings steadily to fly and fly and fly. Like a dragon should. Below, her blue-tinged shadow raced across the white ground and in her dream it was joined by others, those of younger white dragons — her offspring? — so close to each other that they formed a V.
With triumphant war cries, she led them all on, speeding as swiftly as falling hail, touching each other with their thoughts. Preparing themselves for the battle to come. On, through the gaps between the mountain peaks. Now following the burnished ribbon of a distant river that was enjoying the flow of orange light from the setting sun as much as that of the cold mountain water it carried to the sea. Coming closer to their enemy.
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In the twilight, the city of the Sí glowed amber with the magic of its supernatural lights. Contempt and hunger rose up in a dozen minds, shared thoughts that reinforced each other’s desire to feast on flesh and bone. And for revenge. Their wings beat faster, creating the rhythm for a battle song.
Drawn from the entire length of her body, a long cry reverberated through the valley; a howl that she let loose with all her growing fury. It was a piercing shout that was taken up by her comrades. Let all living creatures below run in terror. White dragons are on the wing.
This was as far as the dream could take her. For if she let it continue, it became a nightmare where Síamharaíonnarach — the Sí-that-kills-dragons — stood before them and she could not be moved by their thoughts, their icy-breath, their teeth or their claws. In the nightmare, the warrior’s silver lance struck down many of the dragon brood and her bolts of magical fire caused the others to come crashing down onto rocky outcrops.
No, best to avert such thoughts and empty her mind.
Most years, near midsummer, someone walked on the ice above her. Someone whose mind was closed fast, like a limpet against rock. At first the white dragon had been terrified that Síamharaíonnarach had found her, despite all her precautions. Yet the presence did nothing other than wait above her for a moment and then leave. The same event occurred the following year and although again the dragon came to full wakefulness, she did not feel the same urge to flee. Ten years later and the presence was barely a ripple in her slumbers. A hundred years and it was unnoticed.
Except today. For today the mind opened and a thought emerged.
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— Dragon. You can leave now. Síamharaíonnarach is dead.
— Who are you?
— A friend of dragons and an enemy of the Sí. Know that I am a witch and be satisfied. You can believe me.
A witch? Believe a witch? Never. Yet the dragon did believe this one. Something in the warmth of the sea and the distant echoes of mourning whale song felt right. Síamharaíonnarach was dead! At last! The white dragon had survived, when so many other dragons had died. Now she would fly again. And the Sí would suffer.
Stirring her limbs into a motion that they had not felt for centuries, the white dragon began her swim to open seas; as she did so, she felt the witch hurry away.
Very wise, old witch, for a hungry dragon feels no gratitude.
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