Everything Changes

John Sullivan lives in Gaithersberg, Maryland, with Max, "the one-eyed pirate cat," and works as a journalist covering the wireless telecommunications industry. He holds a Bachelor's degree in Geography and, in 1999, attended the Clarion writing workshop. He's on the Web at www.sff. net/people/johnsullivan. "Everything Changes," his first publication in the genre, appeared in the magazine Adventures of Sword & Sorcery, one of the better small press fantasy magazines—it has been published for a number of years and often contains stories of high quality. He also published a story in a mystery anthology called Crafty Cat Crimes (apparently a thriving subgenre) that Stefan Dziemianowicz put together for Barnes and Noble at about the same time.

In "Everything Changes," humans have come to regard the dragon as a powerful weapon to be used or destroyed, or as a figurehead to be manipulated. Sullivan says that this story "is an argument in favor of the wisdom that comes with experience. That experience can be a powerful tool, even when the world around you has become very different from the one you knew. I love dribbling bits of technology—gunpowder, electricity, what have you—into fantasy settings to see what happens." This examination bears interesting fruit: The dragon, who is older and wiser, resists lobbying, political pressure, threats, and objectification to lead the people better than can the human kings.

I am sunning myself on the west terrace when Gilyan comes. Still languid, I fold one wing back against my body to clear his path.

He stands before me and makes the ancient gesture of fealty. "Great Lord, emissaries of Caladin enter the pass from the east," he says.

The late summer sun and the warm stone beneath my scales make me slow. "Let them through," I rumble. "If your people have needs, you may tax them a bit."

"They're not merchants, Great Lord. The King himself comes, with officials and soldiers. He seeks audience with you."

I stretch my limbs and scratch one long, thin claw across the marble as my blood speeds up again. "The King himself? Something to do with this war you mention?"

"It must be," says Gilyan. "He must want protection. Travelers say war will come before winter, and Caladin isn't ready."

If soldiers attack through my pass, I am involved in their petty affairs, whether I wish it or not. I breathe slowly, rasping, and tense my claws.

"I will receive him," I say at last. "But not here, and not in the pass. On the high table. And him alone."

Gilyan bows and backs toward the doors.

"Gilyan?"

"Yes, Great Lord?"

"This King. What is his name now?"

"Mindaran the ninth, Great Lord. The people call him 'the Kind.'"

The ninth already. They come and go so quickly, and I can't tell one from the next.

A minute's flight brings me to the windswept rocks at the highest summit, but the King takes hours to climb to me. When he comes he is flushed and panting. An old man, not used to climbing my mountains alone. There is fear in his eyes as he leans against one of the ancient statues to catch his breath.

"Mindaran the Kind," I roar over the wind. "What do you seek from me?"

He trembles at the sound, but steps forward and looks up at me. "Mighty Teliax, my people are in danger. Tadroth's armies will invade my nation soon, before the snows. Their soldiers will march through your pass, supported by cannon and horse. We will not be able to stop them. As those who loved justice did in days long past, I come to beg for your help."

"You cannot defend yourselves?"

"For three years the rains have been weak, the harvests bad. I've had to deplete my treasury to feed the people. There's been no money for powder and guns, but when the children starve, what good is an army to protect the dead land? What else could I do? Mighty Teliax, the pass is yours. You can prevent this. Hear my cries and save my people."

He tries to use the ancient forms of address, but he does not understand them. He simply hopes they will flatter me into doing what he wants.

"I have heard you. Leave me now."

The winds carry me over the northern plains, so high that my shadow is only a faint cross sliding across the ground far below. But my eyes are hunter's eyes. Movement draws them, even from this high. Once, when the people below sensed my shadow sweeping over them, they felt an ancient fear. Something buried deep inside them recognized a hunter's shadow.

They were illiterate savages then, huddling around their fires at night, praying I would suffer them to live. I was old even then, and at last I gained wisdom and left them in peace.

They built a great empire, uniting the plains on both sides of my mountains. They taught the children that their God had sent me to embody his vigilance and his anger, but in time they forgot why they had built the public buildings and the great temples. They tore them down to make walls around their villages from the stone. Then, when they could no longer remember why they had needed walls, they used the stone to build houses. Again in time, the houses were abandoned, and the stone made roads to cities long forgotten now.

Always I have been above them, guarding the pass through the mountains. I am eternal, as they are ever-changing.

Now comes a new change. Below me Tadroth's army practices its maneuvers with different weapons than the old sword and bow. The tang of powder smoke rises on the wind now, and the faint crack of muskets. The soldiers are too busy to notice my passage as they form their shifting patterns of infantry, cavalry and artillery. If they looked up, would they still feel the old fear, or have their weapons made them fearless?

When Tadroth's ambassador arrives, he leads a regiment of soldiers and a great train of gifts. Gold and jewels, bolts of silk, and dozens of marble statues. The wagons creak and the oxen strain to climb the pass.

So they think of me as another petty princeling now, with power to be measured against their armies. Will they try to buy my strength with their trinkets?

I fly down to meet them halfway up the pass. Let them feel the wind my wings can raise, and smell my sulfur breath. Let them feel a touch of the old fright again. Gilyan advises against this. They are powerful, he says. They are dangerous.

I swoop down out of the dying autumn sun and land before them, kicking up gravel and frightening their horses. While they calm the animals, I approach the ambassador.

"Are these merchants," I growl, "carrying trade goods through my pass?"

He struggles to maintain his composure. "Mighty Teliax," he says, "I bring you greetings and gifts of friendship from my Lord, King Serian of Tadroth." He makes a sweeping gesture to the wagons.

"You should speak quickly," I rumble, "for your lives are fleeting. You wish to attack your neighbors across my pass, do you not?"

"Mighty Teliax," the ambassador sputters, "you among all creatures know that Tadroth and Caladin were one from the earliest days. Our cause is just. It is time to re-unify the land under one King again. We offer you tribute and friendship if you will join your power to ours. Together we will rebuild the glories of the past."

Copyright © 2001 by David G. Hartwell and Kathryn Cramer