4.1 - Remara and the Book Thief

Note: Here begins a 6-chapter saga. Recently completed, I will be dropping these very close together. Warning, a few disturbing images of injury happen in this arc.

Ha'Drak coils his long tail in a perfect spiral around his right hind leg, his eyes fixed on the last remaining light in the window of the house he has been watching since moonbreak. He is familiar with this house and has obtained three books from it already. He really shouldn't keep taking from the same place, but it is so hard when this one knows how to pick really good stories!

He hoards books, but only the best. Well, that's not entirely true. Sometimes he keeps mediocre books because he's only a couple years out of the egg and his hoard is still small and it takes so much effort to get each one. But some glorious day in the future he will shove any undeserving tomes out of the nest and have whole tunnels and caverns of only the absolute best writing in this world.

He takes it back. He won't shove the mediocre books out, they are still his. He will lay them like stepping stones leading into his personal library holes. Yes, he likes that. Stepping stones and great big lounges made of the lesser books. It warms his scales to picture it.

It's too bad most of the best books are much too heavy to drag. He has to pick his targets carefully. Often, he can only take thin or compact volumes. Never the big, beautiful, illustrated ones with so many pages it would take him a month to read. He sighs his longing all the way out, then refocuses on the window.

The tail uncurls. Recurls around his other hind leg. He shifts on the tree branch he's claimed, keeping one eye on the moon. The whole tree is still in good shadow, no need to find another spot. He just wishes the people would hurry up and sleep!

"Trouble with book-loving humans," he grumbles. "And their stupid lamps. Reading late. Is night! Shut eyes!" he hisses, but quietly. If he waits this long and he grabs a terrible book… but that won't be a problem here. This human has good sense. Ha'drak couldn't bear it if he's wrong about that, so he's not wrong. Simple.

Sometimes, Ha'Drak goes to all the trouble of removing a book from a human's dwelling-place and lugging it all the way to his cave only to discover its lackluster plot or page after page of ill-constructed sentences. Not all are stories, of course. Some hold information about the world, but even those have great variation in quality. Once, he came away with a tome full of such pompous arguments and weakly-reached conclusions that he engraved a contemptuous note in the leather cover with his claw and returned it to the humans' front door.

"Phlagh." Ha'Drak smirks, flicking his tongue out. "How she like that. Spend so much coin on book, and not good enough for dragon hoard. Never go there again."

The stars shift a little more in the sky before the last window finally goes dark. Ha'Drak's heart thrums but still he waits. Readers tend to be restless humans. One more hour, at least, before he begins.

He says that to himself, but only half the time passes when he uncoils his tail, fixes one eye on the shadow cast along the windowsill, and dives snout-first into the shadow cloaking the whole of the tree. He pops out on the windowsill, his claws raking along the wooden ledge as he scrambles to arrest his momentum. He flattens himself and holds perfectly still, breathing slow as a tree, his earfins cocked and his eyes swiveling around in opposite directions.

No unexpected movements. No extra sounds in the night. Not for five minutes. Not for ten. Slow, slow, he sits up and fixes one eye through the window. No lamps on in the sitting room. No candles. Just moonlight and a room full of shadows. Perfect.

He noses forward, slipping through the shadow on the windowsill and out into the sitting room. He appears where he had his eye fixed, on the floor right next to the bookshelf. It's a huge, hulking thing, one of four in the room. A whole colony of voidflyers could nest on those shelves if they weren't crammed end to end with books.

His heart beats painful-hard. He turns sideways and rubs up against the beautiful spines of all the books he won't be able to take with him, like a cat winding around its owner's legs. It's going to hurt, picking just one. All of these are his. Every last one. Why is he so small?

He savors the smell of leather and lovely, musty pages a little longer before pulling back. He begins scanning the titles on the bottom shelf when something catches his attention. Center of the room. It's right there, open on a little side-table next to the big chair. A long, flowing tablecloth drapes over the side-table and on top of that lies an open book.

Must be book the human was reading.

That thought kicks Ha'Drak's breathing up hard.

Must be book that kept human awake so long. Must be good book.

It's already open. It's not very big. Ha'Drak can read a page fast if he needs to, even by dim moonlight. All the books are his, but this one might be even more his than the others. Just one page and he'll know.

He hesitates. Moonlight spills through a second window all the way to the center of the room, illuminating his quarry. Good for reading, bad for shadows.

Only small shadows there. Scattered. Far apart.

No sound. Nothing moves.

It's okay. Is safe.

Ha'Drak swishes through the bookshelf shadow and squirms out of the tiny shadow cast by the chair's arm. It's a tight squeeze and he scrapes off a few scales as he pops through. In a flash he is up on the side table, his eyes roaming lines of text in sync.

Story. It is a story. Oh-hoh, a pretty pretty story. Two paragraphs and he knows this one is his. Too bad human didn't finish first. Will never know the ending. Hah. Ha'drak slips his claws under the cover and gingerly closes the book.

Something snaps. Book, Ha'Drak, and tablecloth all jerk together in a tangled bundle.

No sight! No sight, no escape! He thrashes, scissoring his claws against the cloth, but there is too much cloth.

Suddenly there is plenty of noise. Noise, light, and heavy steps. The bundle-bag of dragon is grabbed and held up to dangle. "I thought so."

Human voice. Verybad. Good book was bad trap. Still, Ha'Drak curls around his new book, hissing like he's ten times bigger.

The bag is shaken roughly. A hand swats it. "Couldn't have been a human, a human thief would have stolen as much as they could carry and only one at a time was going missing. If you were stealing all you could carry, you had to be very small. Filthy blacksnake! Where did you hide my books?"

Ha'Drak only hisses, clinging to the book as he's battered through the cloth. No answer him, not ever. Is not dirty human's books anymore.

"Won't tell me, eh? Thought as much. I'll swallow this much loss, but no more. You're going to market for this. Might make up for a couple of the books, and I won't lose any more to you."

Uh oh. What means? Ha'Drak bares his teeth. He just needs a little shadow to slide in and a little shadow where he can slide out. No out-shadow, can't see! Can't see, so might end up anywheres. Might-be ends up in the great underwater shadow. Bad-death there.

A big hand crashes into the side of the bag. Ha'Drak is smashed against his book, his head ringing. He's hit again. Again.

Can't think. Can't—

Clink.

"Good riddance."

Ha'Drak cracks an eye open. His ribs feel like fire, his head bangs like nasty drum, but he's out of the trap-bundle and he sees fine. Sees coins go from one hand to another. Before he can move, he's dropped into another sack.

Where book?!

The cloth is different than the trap that caught him and he's the only thing in there. He writhes, scrabbling at the sides with his claws. Book thieves! Steal my book? Bite you! Scratch you! But the bag dulls his claws. It's more than fabric, there's something else in the weave, something hard that he can't tear. He will never find out how his new story goes and that is a dagger through the guts.

The sack bumps and jumbles him around for a long time. The journey is so jangling, he can never quite work his way up to the clenched-shut mouth of the sack. Trying to bite his captor through the fabric only hurts his teeth. He coils into a vicious ball of claws and teeth and fury at the bottom and waits.

Abruptly, the sack is smacked against something hard. His head spins and his ribs scream. He uncurls, dazed, and in that moment a hand thrusts in through the mouth of the sack and wraps around his whole head.

Spikes! Like hot spikes and stabbing talons! Ha'Drak squeals through clenched teeth at this touch. The pain is far worse than all the battering. There is no breathing, no thinking, and very little motion in him as the hand drags him from the sack. A second, agonizing hand joins the first and stretches him straight like a rope on some flat surface. Every second is like needles being driven under his scales!

Feels like Deathspill. There are some shadows no voidflyer dragon ever dives for, even if a hawk has them by the tail. Deathspill looks almost like regular shadows, but thicker. Foggier. Those shadows will spit a voidflyer out dead. Sometimes in pieces. Sometimes as bones. Every hatchling gets lessons about it early on, when they are brought just close enough to a patch of Deathspill learn the difference between it and normal shadows, and to touch it with the tip of a tail or claw. In his lesson, Ha'Drak lost the tip of his tail and it didn't regenerate for two weeks.

Am dying. Must be dropping me into Deathspill.

Painful hands roam all over him, doing something to his body. There is no resistance in him, only limp wailing. He is lifted up and set down, and finally the hands release him. The absence of pain washes over his scales sweeter than the warmest sunlight. He slumps in a shivery heap, wheezing. Water leaks from his shut eyes. There is blood between his teeth. He forces his eyes to open up, to work for him.

Have to find shadows out, find now!

Bars. The first thing he sees is lines of curved brass bars, each bar thoroughly wrapped with a black line of thread that grows darker the more he looks at it. Deathspill. He spins, keeping his tail curled around a leg, but the thread-wrapped bars surround him. The only place that has no Deathspill is the circular metal floor under him. He crouches at the center of the cage, lips pulled back from his teeth, still searching for any shadows that will free him and not kill him.

His cage is on a desk. A figure looms over the desk, dipping a quill into an inkpot and scratching crisp, swooping letters onto clean paper.

Human? Human-sized. Can't see because…

Ha'Drak nearly backs into the bars, hissing so hard he sprays spit everywhere. The human is covered in Deathspill. No wonder touch hurts! The hands wear gloves so dark that light bends toward them and the rest of the human is wrapped in a hooded cloak of the same material. There isn't an inch of skin to be seen and a haze of darkness extends out from the cloak and gloves, like a million grasping shadow-hands devouring the candlelight. The only way he can tell it's human is its size and way it sits.

The hands pause their writing for a moment, then continue. A voice—distorted and dissonant—comes from somewhere within that shadowy head. "I'll lay you down the rules once. Break 'em so badly that I lose a sale and I'll lop off your legs. One for each loss. Rule one, don't bite. Rule two, watch your mouth in front of buyers. Rule three, when I sell you, go like you're happy. Rule four, be good and obey your buyer. Keep 'em happy, they'll start you up a new hoard. Books, right? That's what they said you were caught with." The figure lifts the sheet of paper. It says:

Ha'Drak spits at the paper. "Can't force rule four. You sell, am gone. One day, longest."

The figure calmly wipes the spit off the page. "Like your new harness?"

Ha'Drak twists his neck around, then shrieks in horror as he sees what the hands had put on his body. Flameweave harness! Firelight, handwoven into cords by Skytes. It doesn't hurt, but its light will drive all shadows out of his reach as long as he wears it. He scratches at it, but his claws just pass through the firelight.

"That harness'll go with you. Part of the sale price," the human says. "You're not going anywhere."

"Bash'em Skytes!" Ha'Drak snarls. "Rip wings off! Why weave this? Why do?"

The voice answers, chuckling, "Don't curse 'em too bad. They've no more say than you. Might see a few of 'em tomorrow at Market." The figure stands, then takes the cage and lifts it off the desk. Ha'Drak scrambles to stay in the center as the cage is hung from a hook in the ceiling. For the first time, Ha'Drak sees that they are in a small shack. There is a desk, a tiny stove, a storage box, and a bed. Barely anything at all, this walled-room. The human stretches on the bed and blows out the candle.

"Better rest. Wing Market runs tomorrow and the day after. With a hoard type like yours, beg the stars you're snatched up by some desperate criminal who needs your shadow-hopping. Nobles don't risk expensive pets disappearing. They'll have you blinded so you can't run off. And we know about your healing tricks, so there'd be regular blindings."

Ha'Drak's blood freezes in his veins. Never read again? Never see words, never think about stories, never cackle over a good jab in an argument or learn new things about the world?

He'd sooner dive into a random shadow with his eyes shut. Better off lost or drowned in the deeps than torn from books forever and ever.