‘The Ninth Rain,’ Tor breathed next to her. ‘But it’s so fast . . .’
The pods fell, and, belatedly, Noon realised exactly how large they were – the biggest was the size of a fully loaded cart. She yanked Tor back, looking too late for cover, and then they were crashing to the marble floor all around them, bouncing and rolling in sudden chaos, hitting with deep sullen thuds that Noon felt through her boots. She and Tor danced out of their way while Hestillion cringed against the roots, but miraculously none of them were struck.
‘I never thought I’d see it.’ Tor looked bewildered, and much younger than he had a moment ago. ‘I never thought I’d see them.’
Noon glanced around at the pods, her heart in her mouth. Something was wrong here, terribly wrong, but there was no time . . . she knew which one as soon as she laid her eyes on it, as clear to her as the full moon in an empty summer sky. It was the largest of them all, taller than she was, and the pull towards it was impossible to ignore.
‘Now you have to cover me, my friend.’
Tor blinked at her, utter confusion on his face, but then his sister was standing up and shouting questions at the queen, her voice strong and faintly outraged.
‘This is holy ground you walk upon, creature. What do you think gives you the right to be here?’
Noon saw the mask-like face that hung within the teeming mass of the queen’s body turn towards Hestillion, its perfect eyebrows raised in genuine surprise, but then the pod seemed to summon her again. She walked towards it, no more able to stop than she was able to float up into the sky. Inside her there was a fluttering sensation, as though she were a glass jar with a moth trapped inside.
‘I am here, I am here,’ she murmured. Placing her hands on the smooth skin of the pod, she wasn’t surprised to find that it was hot to the touch, fevered almost. Beneath the taut covering something was shifting, pushing and straining. Distantly, she was aware of both Tor and Hestillion remonstrating with the queen – they were distracting the Jure’lia creature, but she wouldn’t play along for long.
‘Everything hangs in the balance,’ she said to the pod. ‘Here, at the time of your new birth.’ The words weren’t hers, and as each one left her mouth she felt dizzier and dizzier.
Help me, said the voice in her head. You will have to help me. This is too soon.
Noon was momentarily lost. She had no knife, nothing to cut this smooth surface with. Dimly she was aware that Aldasair and the big man, Bern, were somewhere amongst the fallen pods, and she briefly considered asking the Finneral man to let her use his axes; but instinctively she flinched away from this idea. Human steel at such a birthing was wrong. Instead, she knelt by the pod and pressed her hands flat to it, summoning the swirling energy to her as she did so. Not flames, but heat; not the sun, but the fine building of summer within the sun-soaked stone. She poured it into the pod, feeling the surface beginning to blister under her fingers, and then it split, suddenly, like a nut on a fire. Noon pushed her fingers under the edges and pulled, revealing a membranous white material, a little like lace, and then that tore and she was looking into a huge, violet eye, the pupil a black slash down the middle, narrowing at the sight of her.
VOSTOK.
It was like being punched between the eyes. Noon reeled, struggling to stay conscious, and then she was tearing at the pod, and inside it something huge was battering its way out. Pieces of the pod came away in her hands easily now, slippery with an oily fluid, and the lace-like substance disintegrated in her hands. A scaled snout thrust its way through the gap, blasting hot breath into her face, and then an entire head appeared, shaking off scraps of pod material before collapsing heavily onto her lap.
‘Vostok?’
Bigger than a horse’s head, it was reptilian in nature, a long snout studded with pearly white scales, some as big as medallions, some as small as the nail on Noon’s smallest finger. The creature – Vostok, thought Noon feverishly, her name is Vostok – opened her long jaws and panted, revealing lines of wickedly sharp teeth and a dark purple tongue. The top of her sleek head bristled with curling horns, bone-white and tapering to points, while on the bony nubs protruding from beneath the violet eyes, tiny white feathers sprouted, damp and stuck together. A long, sinuous neck led back inside the pod, where Noon could just make out a body, curled and compact but already moving to be free. Noon cradled the head in her arms as best she could. The fluid of the pod had soaked into her clothes, and there was a bright, clean smell everywhere, like sap.
Child, you birthed me in your witch fire.
Noon nodded. The voice was echoing strangely.
You understand I have to take back what was taken.
Noon nodded again. She understood. She welcomed it.
The great reptilian body inside the pod – dragon, exulted Noon, dragon – flexed and the last of its cocoon burst and fell aside. The head rose from Noon’s lap and the snout rested against Noon’s forehead for a moment. The scales felt cool now, like a blessing.
There was a brief impression of movement and bulk – Noon saw great white wings, still wet and pressed to the dragon’s back – and then a long talon pierced her, in the soft place below her ribs.
Pain, and a rushing sensation. The presence within her, and its boiling energy, flowed away, rushing out and leaving her stranded, a piece of debris on the shore. And then on the tail of that, her blood, soaking the front of her jacket. In confusion she thought of Tor. Couldn’t she hear him shouting something now? Wasn’t it her name?
‘Thank you, child.’ The voice that had been carried inside her for so long was now issuing from the dragon. Noon didn’t understand how that could be, but it was. Vostok’s long jaws hung open, panting like a dog. ‘But your service is not over.’
Vostok withdrew her talon. Noon screamed, unable not to – the taking away was somehow worse than being pierced – yet when she looked down she saw her torn jacket, her blood, but no wound; just a ragged silver scar. She pressed her fingers against it wonderingly.
‘No time.’ Vostok thrust her head against her, nearly knocking her over. ‘Get up and fight.’
A war-beast. A real living war-beast, born from Ygseril’s branches.
Tor could hardly drag his eyes from it. The creature was glorious, a confection of pearly white scales and silvered claws. It had wings like an eagle, but each feather was as white as snow, and as yet still wet with the fluid it had been birthed in. Noon was talking to it, her hands pressed to either side of its long mouth, heedless of the teeth and the power in that jaw—
Hestillion’s elbow caught him in the rib and he dragged his attention back to their current problem.