5
Now, there are several things you should consider doing if you were plummeting to your death atop a glass dragon in the middle of the ocean.
Those things do not, mind you, include getting into an extended discussion of classical philosophy.
Leave that to professionals like me.
I want you to think about a ship. No, not a flying dragon ship like the one that was falling apart beneath me as I fell to my death. Focus. I obviously survived the crash, since this book is written in the first person.
I want you to think of a regular ship. The wooden kind, meant for sailing on the ocean. A ship owned by a man named Theseus, a Greek king immortalized by the writer Plutarch.
Plutarch was a silly little Greek historian best known for being born about three centuries too late, for having a great fascination with dead people, and for being way too long-winded. (He produced well over 800,000 words’ worth of writing. The Honorable Council of Fantasy Writers Whose Books Are Way Too Long – good old THCoFWWBAWTL – is considering making him an honorary member.)
Plutarch wrote a metaphor about the Ship of Theseus. You see, once the great king Theseus died, the people wanted to remember him. They decided to preserve his ship for future generations.
The ship got old, and its planks – as wood obstinately insists on doing – began to rot. After that, other pieces got old, and they replaced those too.
This continued for years. Eventually, every single part on the ship had been replaced. So, Plutarch relates an argument that many philosophers wonder about. Is the ship still the Ship of Theseus? People call it that. Everyone knows it is. Yet, there’s a problem. Not all the pieces are actually from the ship that Theseus used.
Is it the same ship?
I think it isn’t. That ship is gone, buried, rotted. The copy everyone then called the Ship of Theseus was really just a . . . copy. It might have looked the same, but looks can be deceiving.
Now, what does this have to do with my story? Everything. You see, I’m that ship. Don’t worry. I’ll probably explain it to you eventually.
The Dragonaut fell into the clouds. The puffs of white passed around me in a furious maelstrom. Then, we were out of them, and I could see something very dark and very vast beneath me.
The ocean. I had that same feeling as before – the terrible thought that we were all going to die. And this time, it was my fault.
Stupid mortality.
The Dragonaut lurched, taking my stomach along with it. The mighty wings continued to beat, reflecting diffuse starlight that shone through the clouds. I’d twisted, looking to the cockpit, and saw Kaz concentrating, hand on the panel. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he managed to keep the ship in the air.
Something cracked. I looked down, realizing that I was standing in the very center of the broken portion of glass.
Uh-oh . . .
The glass beneath me shattered, but fortunately the ship twisted at that moment, lurching upward. I was thrown down into the body of the vessel. I hit the glass floor, then had the peace of mind to slam one of my feet against the wall – locking it into place – as the ship writhed.
Kaz was doing an impressive job. The four remaining wings beat furiously, and the ship wasn’t falling as quickly. We’d gone from a plummet of doom into a controlled spiral of doom.
I twisted, standing, the Grappler’s Glass giving me enough stability to walk back to the cockpit. As I walked, I took off my Lenses and tucked them into their pocket, feeling lucky that I hadn’t lost them in the chaos.
Inside, I found Bastille huddled over Australia, who looked very groggy. My cousin was bleeding from a blow to the head – I later learned she’d been thrown sideways into the wall when the ship began to fall.
I knew exactly what that felt like.
Bastille managed to strap poor Australia into a harness of some kind. Kaz was still focused on keeping us in the air. ‘Blasted thing,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘why do you tall people have to fly up so high?’
I could just barely see land approaching ahead of us, and I felt a thrill of hope. At that moment, the back half of the dragon broke off, taking two more of the wings with it. We staggered in the air again, spinning, and the wall beside me exploded outward from the pressure.
Australia screamed, Kaz swore. I fell down on my back, knees bent, feet still planted on the floor.
And Bastille was sucked out the opening in the wall.
Now, I’ll tell you time and time again that I’m not a hero. However, sometimes I am a bit quick-witted. As I saw Bastille shoot past me, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to grab her in time.
I couldn’t grab her, but I could kick her. So I did.