Summer's Fall

by Carol E. Leever

  Geryon handed back her notebook. "Perhaps I have something that can aid in your search. Wait here a moment." He left the room, moving swiftly down the hallway toward the office kept for his own private use. Neither she, nor anyone else in the Hold ever entered his rooms, for no Melian would ever dare intrude upon a dragon's private domain. But she had always been curious about what things she might find inside — ancient scrolls and books only the dragons had gazed upon.

  He returned a few moments later, carrying a slender sword in a golden scabbard. He held it out to her.

  Shalonie stared at it, her mouth gaping. She took in the craftsmanship and markings upon the hilt and the scabbard. Sunlight coming in through the large windows that lined the marbled hallway caught upon the golden metal of the weapon and sheath and highlighted the amethyst gems that adorned the hilt. She knew this blade was not made from any common gold. She recognized the deep amethyst color. She'd known it her entire life. This blade was made from Geryon's own dragonscales.

  "I had this crafted for you the day I saw your father teaching you the sword," he told her, holding out the weapon. Gifts made from dragonscales were rare beyond belief, and more precious than any treasure. "I was told not to give it to you until you had completed a certain task."

  "Told? By whom, and what task?" she blurted out, hesitant to even reach out for the blade.

  "By the Ancients." He smiled warmly, and Shalonie felt her heart skip a beat at the possibility that the Ancient Melian Dragons, veritable gods of the land, might know who she was.

  "The task was simple," he continued. "I was to give you this blade on the day you thoroughly surprised me. You have discovered an answer to a riddle that we have been struggling with for centuries. You have exceeded all of my expectations." He lifted the blade in both hands, holding it out to her and urging her to take it. "There is not a single door in all Melia that this will not open, regardless of the decrees of the Hold Lords."

  He seemed to enjoy the look of wonder she gave him as she lifted the blade from his hands — taking care not to actually touch his skin — one did not touch the Sundragons of Melia for any reason.

  She fully understood what he meant by doors being opened: carrying this blade, the highest mark of the Sundragons' favor, she could go anywhere in Melia, even the library her mother had forbidden her access to.

  As she took the blade in her hands, she could feel Geryon's own magic in the golden metal. The warmth of the song that made up his soul resonated in the fibers of her heart. She, like all Melians, was tied through blood and magic to the Sundragons, possessing a piece of the Ancient Dragon Melia's own soul within her heart. There was no more fundamental connection to a Melian's heritage than a Sundragon's scale. It was that connection the dragons had used to awaken the Melians from the Widow Maker's grasp the night before.

  "The city library!" she exclaimed like a delighted child. "The libraries of the Twelve Holds!" Her eyes widened as she thought of one of the other places she'd never set foot in. "The archives of the Untouchables in the Temple itself!" Possession of this sword would open the doors to all these places. There wasn't a Melian in existence who would deny access to one who possessed a dragon blade.

  "Or the archives of the Ancients in the Dragon Lands if you so desire," Geryon told her with a smile.

  A hard shockwave washed over her. Access to the Dragon Lands! I am losing my mind! To be allowed into the very realm of the gods themselves was nearly unheard of. Few Melians in history have seen the Dragon Lands! She might be the heir to a Hold, but she had not done anything of worth. To be granted such an honor. She trembled with excitement and fear. "Lo . . . rd . . . Ger . . . yon . . ." she began, barely able to form words.

  He held up his graceful hand, silencing her protest. "Learn whatever you can, Shalonie. Go wherever you must, in Melia and beyond. I only ask that you take care, and do not wander the world alone as your father does. We cannot lose you, too. You will be cautious, yes?"

  "Of course, my lord. I promise." She silently swore to herself that she would follow his directive, would surround herself with whomever she had to in order to explore all the dark places of the world in relative safety.

  "Good," he agreed with sudden humor. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have a White Grove and group of wood sprites to save. Perhaps I shall suggest to your mother that she donate one of her carriages to charity. She has so many of them, after all." He strode away, moving down the hallway silently as mist, and vanished into the depths of the Hold.

  Shalonie sank down into a chair near the hearth, her hands gripping the sword tightly, her eyes still on the golden sheen of the weapon. Her mind whirled as she tried to formulate a plan. Her entire life she'd had to scramble to gather material to further her research. Now she had so many libraries open to her, she wasn't certain where to start.

  "Shalonie?"

  The new voice startled her, and Shalonie looked up with a flinch. She stared blankly at the young copper-haired man standing in her doorway. Though he had not been announced by any servant, Omen Daenoth had entered the Hold and was standing in the doorway to her office. His odd eyes — one silver, one Deldano green — shone with a mix of hope and anticipation.

  Shalonie suspected any announcement of his arrival had gone to her mother who had promptly ignored it — her mother did not care for the foreigners who lived in their city, however elevated their bloodlines.

  So then, how did he get in?

  She glanced past Omen but could see no servants in the hall.

  Omen took a tentative step into the office.

  He's sure gotten tall.

  "Omen?" she asked, wondering what had brought him to her home. If he's here, where is the giant cat? A moment later she heard the sound of something crashing and shattering on the floor near the kitchens. There's the giant cat. So quiet, so stealthy, so graceful.

  Omen cringed at the sound. "I'll pay for that." His voice was as melodious as any Melians, but she suspected as he aged it would deepen to an exceptional baritone. "Tormy has a hard time keeping track of his tail," Omen said sheepishly. "Do you have a minute?" He moved into the center of the room. "I need your help with something."

  Shalonie stood, taking the sword and fixing the scabbard around her waist. She didn't normally wear a blade, but this was one sword she would not be leaving lying about. She saw Omen raise one eyebrow.

  "Dragonscale? Impressive!"

  Though Omen himself was not Melian, he had lived most of his life in the city. Shalonie knew he understood the sword's significance. For a moment, she allowed herself to bask in the awed look he gave her.

  Not often one gets a look like that from Omen Daenoth.

  "What can I do for you?" she asked. She felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her heart.

  "Well." He shifted from one foot to the next as if nervous or not entirely certain what to say. "I suppose you know all about the Widow Maker." He gave a self-deprecating smile at his own obvious statement. "Of course you do . . . For complicated reasons, I've been charged with figuring out why the Widow Maker is in our waters and how it escaped the Autumn Lands." He stopped and shook himself as if changing his mind mid-thought. "Actually, my quest has nothing to do with the Widow Maker, but if I solve one problem, it will also hopefully solve the problem with the Widow Maker. But to do any of it, I actually need to go into the Autumn Lands."

  "Really? That's going to be difficult," she told him, very curious where this was going. "Your best bet would be to go to the Mountain of Shadow in Kharakhan and hope you can find a portal."

  "I know," he said. "My ship leaves tomorrow."

  Sun and scales! She forced herself to remain calm and keep the alarm from her face. "You're going into the Luminal Sea with the Widow Maker just off our shore?"

  "Yes," he replied. She could see the worry in his eyes, though he kept his features neutral. "I don't have a choice. And after what happened here, I have to do my part, whatever the risk. And I know it's a lot to ask, cons
idering the danger. But . . . you . . . actually know things. . . I need your help."

  "You want me to come with you." It was a statement, not a question. She breathed slowly to calm the pounding of her heart. He's asking me to come with him. The idea of heading out to sea with that monster just off the shore was terrifying. But going into the Mountain of Shadow, of seeing the raw magic of that mystical convergence, of entering the fabled Autumn Lands and perhaps seeing some glimpse of the ancient magic of the faerie realm — that was a dream come true.

  And this is exactly what Lord Geryon just tasked me with! Find out more about the Cypher Runes, find a way to protect Melia.

  "I'm in!" she exclaimed, fear and excitement rolling through her. "I'll do it."

  Chapter 8: Shilvagi

  OMEN

  Conley was back on duty when Omen, pleased with himself, returned from Shalonie's Hold. Conley bowed and held the door as Tormy, also pleased with himself, gamboled into the entry hall.

  Omen gave Conley a tight smile because he didn't know what to say to the man. Sorry the squid monster scrambled your brain. But hey, isn't it neat how my dad chased it off? And as a bonus it released the souls of thousands of drowned people. That could have been you. Have a nice day. As Omen hurried after Tormy, he couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that, despite their big win the day before, the threat wasn't over.

  Wonder how Kyr's doing. I didn't say anything to trigger the hex at Shalonie's — I think. Concern continued to tug at him. Hopefully Tyrin kept him distracted. They're probably eating. Omen followed Tormy toward the kitchens. Hope Kyr didn't climb into a cupboard and fall asleep. That boy can sleep anywhere. Just like the cats.

  Lilyth caught him in the hallway before he passed the drawing room. His ten-year-old sister was a miniature version of their mother, and had somehow even managed to master Avarice's wicked smirk. She used it now, willful as if pleased by whatever news she was about to impart. "Mother wants to see you in her office immediately," she told him, hands on her slender hips, silver eyes gleaming.

  "What for?"

  Lilyth's gleeful smirk disconcerted him, and he felt tempted to lift the information from her mind. But his father's constant praise of Lilyth's psionic skills made him hesitate. Not sure I want to get my butt kicked by my little sister. Her shield never faltered yesterday.

  Lilyth twisted from side to side with a persnicketiness not uncommon to girls her age. "Mother had words with Indee, loud words, and she's decided you're not going on your trip after all."

  "What?" Omen couldn't hide his astonishment. Wyvern dung! "Kyr's still hexed! Mother can't decide that! I have to go! What did Indee say to her?"

  "Lots of words that Tyrin would love to learn," Lilyth replied, and then she turned on her heel and sauntered off, her inky-dark curls bouncing with each step. "Better not keep Mother waiting," she called over her shoulder. "You know how she gets when she's riled up. Maybe she'll ground you too."

  Lilyth's monumental grounding was a point of bitter contention for the girl. Five months ago she had used the newly installed Daenoth transfer portal to travel to Terizkand all alone in search of a Tormy or Tyrin of her own. As punishment for an act that had nearly gotten her killed, she was forbidden from receiving anything new for an entire year, no clothes, no books, no jewelry, no gifts, no prizes — and certainly no talking cat. And as there was nothing in the world the girl wanted more than her own talking cat, she burned with indignation at her punishment.

  Omen wondered if Lilyth might have helped Avarice's mood deteriorate. Still, considering how insistent Avarice had been about the seriousness of Kyr's hex, it didn't make sense that she would now forbid him from going. Unless Indee angered her. But if I even hint that I'm not going, the hex will activate and Kyr will be injured. Worried and irritated, he turned away from the kitchens and stormed toward the west wing and his mother's private office. It's not like I'm not already worried enough!

  He didn't bother to knock when he got to the large ornate door. Instead he pushed it open and strode inside, determined to present a strong front. Sometimes aggression is the only way to get her attention.

  Stepping into the room, he glanced briefly through the enormous wall of windows at the sun gleaming on the vast ocean below. Turning his eyes toward his mother's desk, he realized that she was not there. Instead of his mother, a young man was sprawled in a plush velvet chair set in front of Avarice's desk.

  Momentarily taken aback, Omen swallowed the words of his prepared tirade and blinked at the stranger with confusion.

  The man was quite young, barely older than Omen. His clothing, deep blue velvets finished with fine brocade piping and soft suede city boots, marked him as a noble instead of a servant. At first glance, he appeared foppish — rings on all of his fingers and several small hoops adorning his ears. His eyes were lined with dark kohl, and a faint shimmer of gold traced his cheeks in the manner of the drug-addled Venedrine elves that ruled over the Sul Havens. He was also unarmed, which Omen marked as unusual.

  The stranger was silver-eyed like every member of the Shilvagi Machelli clan. His shoulder-length black hair shimmered with red highlights. Golden-skinned and sharp-featured, he had a sensual mouth that twisted with a smirk reminiscent of the one Lilyth had just flashed. But more than that, save for his gender, the man was the exact likeness of his mother, as if he were some long lost twin brother. And I know she doesn't have a twin brother. He had met all of his uncles, Avarice's brothers — tall, feral, muscular brutes who were more ruthless than refined. This young man seemed nothing like them. Must be a Machelli though, same eyes, same face, same attitude, but I've never seen one unarmed. He looks more like Mother than even Lilyth does.

  The man did not rise or react to Omen's presence beyond giving him that infernal smirk and drumming his jewel-adorned fingers on the arm of the chair. Typically the members of the Machelli clan gave him at least a perfunctory sign of respect — born out of a long, wary association with his mother.

  Doesn't he know who I am?

  "I'm looking for my mother," Omen announced.

  The young man glanced around the room. "This is her office," he remarked. "Probably a good place to start your search."

  "You're not another long lost brother, are you?" Omen asked flatly.

  The stranger laughed at that. "Find a lot of those, do you?"

  "With remarkable frequency," Omen admitted. "But I was actually referring to my mother this time. Are you my uncle or my cousin?"

  "No idea." An elegant shrug underscored his supposed ignorance. "Possibly both."

  Omen was surprised by the man's indifference. All Machellis he knew could and would recite their lineage ten generations back. Close family ties were vital to the Scaalian clans. "You don't know how you're related to my mother?" he prodded. He's obviously related. The similarity between him and Mother is startling. Omen grew uncomfortable. I hope this isn't one of those bad stories.

  "Not a weasel's fart of a clue who my parents are," the man said dismissively. "I was told not to discuss such things in polite company. Unfortunately, Avarice has failed to inform me who is considered polite, so I confess I'm at a loss. Have I offended you, or should I go into more detail? I tell a very good salacious story. True or not."

  Omen wasn't about to let the man's flippant jabber distract him. "But you are Machelli?"

  "I've been told I'm definitely Shilvagi, and apparently that makes me a Machelli." He yawned, slowly bringing his delicate, ring-clad fingers to his lips. "Devastation."

  "Excuse me?" Omen was confused by the non sequitur.

  The young man laughed again, as if at a joke. "My name," he explained. "It's Devastation."

  Devastation Machelli. Doesn't get more Machelli than that. Omen drummed his fingertips to his thumbs. Never yet met a Machelli without a hex name. He was starting to appreciate the value of "hex" names, as his mother called them. Might have done Kyr some good to have extra protection. Even if it is only superstition.

  His fa
ther's mother, the Queen of Lydon, had thrown a fit over the Machelli naming tradition when Lilyth was born. "Drivel and irrational nonsense! A little princess needs a proper name to set her up right in life," Omen's grandmother had insisted. "You can't call her 'Sepulcher' Daenoth! That is insane!" She had gone on to tell 7 once again that he had married a lunatic.

  Omen, who had been privy to the ugly conversation, had received the bribe of a bowl of honey custard and a new pony in exchange for never repeating his grandmother's words to his mother. He'd kept his promise. And 7 had brokered a truce between his mother and his wife.

  Lilyth had been eight months old before Queen Wraiteea had realized Avarice's compromising deception: Lilyth meant "assassin" in her native Scaalian tongue.

  "Devastation Machelli," Omen said slowly, a new thought occurring to him. "Can you turn into a wolf?"

  Devastation raised one eyebrow. "Not that I've ever noticed."

  "Rat's feet!" Omen sighed. "They say we Shilvagi used to be able to transform into wolves. But I've yet to meet a single one that can actually do it." Turning into a wolf would be fun!

  Before Devastation could conjure a reply, Avarice burst into the room and strode past Omen. Grabbing onto the back of her desk chair, she regarded both of them with a stern expression. To Omen's surprise, Avarice did not comment on the young man's failure to rise out of his sprawled pose, though he noticed her knuckles turn white with her tightening grip.

  Not displaying the least bit of fear, Devastation gave Avarice a warm, overfamiliar smile.

  That, more than anything, set Omen's nerves on edge. As an afterthought, he remembered that he had intended to meet his mother's ruling with aggression. He opened his mouth to protest. "Mo—"

  "Good, you're both here," Avarice cut him off.

  "Father said I had to go!" he pressed on loudly as if already in the middle of the argument. "You implied it was the only way to help Kyr. And now Lilyth said you've had words with Indee and are going to forbid—"

  "Stop!" Avarice waved her hand before he could say any more.