~ Chapter XVI ~
The Dragon's Library

The floor shot out from under them, and Fíohra felt her stomach jump into her throat. She doubled over Mórdúil's neck so as to keep from being swept off in the gale from his wings. Everything was a blur of scales, stone and shadow. Through bleary eyes Fíohra sometimes saw the dim outlines of windows in the far wall, sometimes—and much closer—the unmarked face of the Túráthú, and sometimes nothing but empty space. After a minute she closed her eyes, willing the disorienting barrage of sights and angles out of her mind with lowered eyelids.

For what seemed an eternity she stayed like that—eyes screwed shut, bent over the dragon's broad shoulders, clinging to his spikes for dear life. The sound of rushing wind and the thudding of his wings filled Fíohra's whole world and mingled with the pitiful throbbing of her own anxious heart.

But after a while she became aware of a new sound. Pressed as she was against his scaly neck, Fíohra could hear the dragon's heart beat. The sound astonished her in a way she had not expected, for it frightened her without causing her actual fear. Something in its inhuman rhythm, its awful power and its sheer vitality stirred a sense of awe in Fíohra that she was not prepared for. All at once, with their two hearts beating so near each other, the mighty creature seemed both utter stranger and strange kin.

It was a most peculiar feeling.

"Hold tight, little one! I must stop soon," Mórdúil announced.

Her eyes snapped open.

Immediately she wished they hadn't. Mórdúil had flown straight into the dim bowl of shadow that capped the mountain cavern, following the rising wall of the Túráthú. It was now very near to her left hand; indeed, she might have been able to touch it if she dared to release her hold on the dragon's back. But she did not dare. Below (though she tried to avert her gaze) Fíohra could not help but see the floor of the cavern, a sickening distance from where they hung suspended in the air. She swallowed and buried her head against the scales of Mórdúil's neck.

"Hold on!" he cried again, and with a sharp thump, the motion of the great wings ceased.

Fíohra's heart nearly stopped in her chest, but they did not fall. When she worked up the courage to raise her head and open her eyes, she saw that Mórdúil had landed, though there was open space all around them. Sneaking a timid glance downwards, the scene revealed itself: the dragon had landed on the tip of the Túráthú, which did not rise all the way to the roof of the mountain as she had first thought. It tapered to a dangerously thin spire of stone, and it was to this spire that Mórdúil now clung.

"Are…w-we there?" Fíohra asked, unable to keep her voice from shaking.

"Look up, child."

She did so.

"Oh."

A great hole pierced the stone ceiling above them, revealing a perfect circle of darkness beyond. It was just wide enough for Mórdúil to pass through. Fíohra's heart leapt into her mouth as he began to climb towards it. She did not try to imagine what lay within. Nearly a dozen feet from the opening, the Túráthú came to an end. They paused for a moment, and Fíohra thought the dragon was reconsidering. But then, with horror, she realized that he was readying himself to spring. She could feel the muscles tense beneath her, and—leaving just enough time for her to tighten her grip—Mórdúil leapt into the air.

Fíohra's scream was stillborn. Even before the climax of their ascent, the dragon's front claws caught the rim of stone and arrested their flight. With a little undignified scrabbling, he heaved himself and his mortal burden up into the darkness of the Uppermost Hall.

"Are you all right?" he asked once they had come to a true stop on solid ground.

Fíohra sat up in the darkness, pressing her hand to her chest to calm her pounding heart. "Aye," she managed, breathless. "Aye, I'm a'right."

"Good." Mórdúil shook his wings and strode forward, still bearing Fíohra. She appreciated his willingness to carry her; after his leap, she didn't trust her legs to support the rest of her. "Then I think it's time for a little light." He murmured a word that Fíohra did not understand, though she felt its power crest over her body with the force of an ocean wave. All at once, great basins of dragonfire erupted to life around the walls of the Hall. "There," Mórdúil said, satisfied. "That will do."

Fíohra's mouth fell agape in wonderment. She slid from Mórdúil's back without thinking, the trembling in her limbs stilled by an overpowering sense of awe.

"Oh," she murmured. "Oh."

"This, little Fíohra, is my Leabharlan," the dragon announced proudly.

The room was not as wide as the cavern below it, but it still made Fíohra feel tiny. It vaulted above her head in a smooth arc, rather like a gargantuan, inverted earthenware bowl. The floor was smooth and unbroken by any sort of furnishing, accept for the dragon-sized hole in the very center. But it was not the size that astonished Fíohra most. For all around the Leabharlann, covering the walls from floor to ceiling, were hundreds of thousands of carvings—tiny, intricate and beautiful beyond belief.

"What are they?" she whispered, unable to keep herself from moving towards the nearest wall to inspect them more closely.

Mórdúil settled on his haunches and adjusted his wings at his side before answering. "They are the myths and legends of many generations. They are tales of greatness and of great wickedness, of justice and evil and goodness and danger and love. They tell of battles and wars, of losses and victories and ruin. They tell of earth and sea, life and death, mortal and immortal. They are the stories of many peoples, many tongues, many nations." He paused and fixed Fíohra with a thoughtful look. "This is the history of your world, child."

She turned to stare at him, incredulous. "All of it?"

The rumble of dragonish laughter broke the gravity of the moment. "Ha!" he snorted, lifted his head to keep the superheated air from scorching his companion. When the first throes of his mirth had passed, he lowered his head to smile at the mortal before him. "Little one, what a thought!"

Fíohra felt a bit ashamed. She stared at her toes and shrugged. "I guess not."

Mórdúil shook his head. "If every stone of Drún was carved as these walls are, half of the story would not fit within the halls of mountain."

"Ah." It was all Fíohra could think to say.

"Do not feel abashed, Fíohra," Mórdúil reassured her. "It was an honest question."

"Aye." She paused to let her embarrassment fade a little before asking another. "And what is it you wish me to do here?"

"Child…" the dragon began, his pearled eyes softening in what she imagined to be a look of sympathy. He continued in a gentle tone. "Do you know how to read?"

Frowning, Fíohra shook her head. It was true; Morogh had never been able to provide his daughters the means to a proper education. But in this one respect, Fíohra knew she was like many other daughters of Baláirdh Drún. Few among even the adults of the village knew how to read. "No. I never learned."

"Ah." He made a sound in his throat and shook his head once. "Well, it is no matter. I suppose it is fitting, then, that this is the only library I can provide you."

"What do you mean?" Fíohra inquired.

"It is my hope that you will find time to study these stories and draw wisdom from them," he said, favoring her with a very dragonish smile.

"Really? Then I can visit this place whenever I wish?"

Mórdúil chuckled. "Of course you may, young one. I only fear that you may find it less attractive when you must climb here yourself." He gestured with a wingtip towards a dark doorway cut into the far wall. "That leads down the side of the mountain, back into passages of the lower halls. My maeleachlainn know the way. But it is a very long climb from the Westward when I am not able to bear you myself."

Fíohra turned and fixed her companion with a troubled glance. "Why not?"

The good humor evaporated from Mórdúil's face, and he heaved a long, hissing sigh before answering. Indeed, he was silent long enough for Fíohra to fear that she had offended him. But when he spoke, he did not sound offended. Instead, he sounded sad. "Fíohra, come closer."

She obeyed.

"You must know that I will tell you all I can, but there are many things yet that I must not yet speak of. Can you accept that?"

Puzzled, she nodded. "Aye, I suppose."

"Good. Then you must know that it was not without purpose that I was made master of Drún. There are many things that need looking after in these ancient halls," he said softly. "I am bound to my duties here, and bound to fulfill them alone. So I will beg you to forgive me if I seem to disappear once every in a while. Those are the times when you must come to the Leabharlann without me."

Fíohra thought of the Túráthú and his great secret. She nodded again. "I understand."

He raised his head, and it seemed for a moment that the sadness in his expression lessened a little. "Thank you, child." Then, almost without warning, his former mood returned. "Now…would you prefer to study these for the rest of the night, or would you like to return in the morning?"

Fíohra glanced at the bowls of dragonfire on the walls. They were indeed quite dim. She turned to the carvings nearest her and sighed; though she greatly desired to begin following the intricate stone scenes throughout the world's history, her earlier lessons with Maeleth and Maelail had sapped her of the energy required for such a task. Bother them! she grumbled to herself. What's swordplay and carraiglas tack to this? But despite her desire to stay, her aching body demanded that she decline.

"Aye. I'll come another time."

"Very well," Mórdúil agreed, unfurling his wings and extending his foreleg to his companion. "Then let us return."