When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  Except Aradma and Ghost. She started to cry again, and Ghost laid his tiger’s chin on her knee, looking up at her in shared sadness.

  37 - Return to Windbowl

  After setting Eszhira and Kristafrost down a few miles outside the city, the airship climbed high again, disappearing into the clouds and putting distance between them and the broken city of Artalon. They left Aradma alone for a few hours, but eventually, Yinkle approached her.

  “I hate to bother you,” she said.

  Aradma stared at her dully.

  “I know you probably don’t care right now, but… where are we going?”

  Suleima knelt behind her. “Where can we go that is safe for your child? And safe for your people?”

  Aradma thought about it for a moment. They were right. She couldn’t give in to her grief yet, and they couldn’t just float in the air forever.

  “Windbowl,” she finally said. “Take us to Windbowl. The duke will give us sanctuary.”

  “Are you sure?” Yinkle asked. “He didn’t seem happy to see us the last time we were there.”

  “Yes,” Aradma stated definitively. “I have felt the notes of his soul. He is an honorable man. He will not turn us away.”

  Yinkle nodded. “Okay then. Helmsman! North! To Windbowl!”

  “Aye-aye, ma’am,” he said, turning the wheel again and sliding another set of gears and levers back and forth.

  The airship sailed over seas of forest and climbed high into the cold air to cross over the mountains of Hammerfold. Aradma stayed belowdecks alone in her quarters, lying wrapped in blankets on her bunk. Soon she would be back where she started.

  A few days later, the airship slowly descended into the grassy field outside Windbowl’s front gate. They took their time, flying low beneath the partially cloud-filled sky. They wanted to make sure they were seen far in advance, in an effort to show peaceful intent.

  The ship’s wing-like sails rolled and folded in upon themselves, retracting from their expanse. The zeppelin floated to the ground, and large wooden poles jutted forward and backwards out of the ship’s bottom hull, holding it upright as it landed.

  The Windbowl guard had indeed seen the craft descend, and walls were lined defensively by the time Aradma stepped off the ramp. She walked with Rajamin and Suleima and approached the closed city gates. The side gate opened, and Captain Kaern emerged. When he saw Aradma, he shifted out of wolven form and called back into the interior.

  The city gates opened, and Duke Montevin walked out to meet them, with Aiella, Hylda, and Attaris at his side.

  Attaris ran ahead of them. “Aradma!”

  He stopped in front of her and exclaimed, “You’ve a wee one on the way!”

  “Yes.” She bent low and hugged him.

  He threw his thick arms around her shoulders, and buried her face in the side of his beard. “Aradma, you’re okay!” He released her, still beaming up at the elf. “Lass, we didn’t think we’d see you again!”

  The duke stood behind the dwarf, folding his hands in front of him. “It pleases me to see you are well,” he said. “Should I worry that you are back here?”

  Aradma shook her head. “I have my people with me, those I could save. We escaped Artalon, but we need sanctuary.”

  “Artalon?” Hylda exclaimed. “I thought you went with the trolls.”

  “It’s a long story,” Aradma said. “One that I would be happy to share. But first, we need food and a place to stay. Will you welcome us here?”

  Montevin considered. “My agents report that their Church has lost all power—I presume there is no Artalonian fleet on your tails.”

  Aradma nodded. “Your agents report true. This is Rajamin, a friend,” she indicated the ratling. “He holds the power of the Old Gods.”

  “Really!” Attaris remarked. “Well, that’ll be welcome.”

  “How many are you?” the duke asked.

  “Just under seventy,” she answered.

  He considered further, and then nodded. “You are welcome here. There is plenty of room, and if they’re willing to work like all of us, there’s no reason they can’t be citizens of Windbowl.”

  “We will earn our keep,” she said. “We just want to settle in peace.”

  “Lass, that won’t be a problem here!” Attaris promised.

  “Indeed,” Montevin agreed. “Tell your people they are welcome. We’ll find them room and board in my keep for the time being. Come. Bring your people, and let us set the kitchens to work. I would hear your story!”

  Though the duke’s hall was quite large, it was filled to the brim, forcing some of the Windbowlians to stand at the sides. The entire company of refugees and ratling crew sat at the long tables alongside every city official who could get themselves invited. To Montevin’s right sat Aradma, Suleima, Rajamin, and Yinkle, and then Jorey’s family. To his left sat Aiella, Hylda, Attaris, and Captain Kaern, and beyond them were people she didn’t recognize.

  The duke provided a bountiful welcome feast that included wine and beer, tender meats brimming with juices, and baked vegetables worked into potato-laden casseroles. The kitchen staff sliced fresh fruits and brought them on small platters to set between each group of four people.

  Despite the crowd, the hall was silent as Aradma recounted her tale. No one there, not even her companions, had heard all of it together. The other seelie listened just as intently as the residents of Windbowl.

  She started at the beginning with her lightfall in February when Attaris had found her. She talked about her memories of the Dragon and of the Fae. There were nods of understanding from the light elves present.

  She spoke at length of the Matriarch’s religion and female-centric beliefs but kept silent regarding their intimacies. Suleima looked at her plate uncomfortably as stares from the room focused on her when Aradma recounted Suleima’s trial and banishment—and later, the honor-killing—of her beloved. When Aradma spoke of Odoune, a soft fondness filled her voice and her eyes grew misty. She touched her fingers to her stomach. “It is his child that grows within me,” she announced.

  There were murmurs at that. Even Aradma’s companions had assumed the child was Tiberan’s. Nowhere in history had there ever been an elf who had born offspring with another race.

  “A half-breed!” Attaris exclaimed. “I didn’t think that was even possible!”

  The hush quickly returned as Aradma continued. She spoke of Artalon and Eldrikura’s mad elven avatar. The duke listened intently when she spoke of the city’s decline into chaos and the confirmation that Artalon’s rune-powered military was no longer a threat.

  She did not share Valkrage’s last words to her. Instead, she only described his final descent into madness and death. When she spoke of how his dying magic had destroyed Tiberan, her voice wavered, and then she stopped. “And now we are here.” She took a long sip of water.

  The hall remained quiet after she finished.

  “You have lived more in the last nine months than most live in a lifetime.” Duke Montevin broke the silence. “Younger than a year, but in some ways, you are older than all of us.” He stood and addressed the people in the room, holding his tankard high. “We are honored to witness the birth of a new race on Ahmbren. To the future, and may history record that Windbowl was friend and home to the light elves!”

  “Hear, hear!” the people of Windbowl shouted.

  He turned back to Aradma. “I pledge to you that you may live among us in peace. We will not try to change you into something you’re not, nor will we seek to take advantage of you for our own ends—and we ask in turn that you won’t of us. Will you help us build prosperity, defend our home when threatened—not because you owe us a debt, but because Windbowl is your home, too?”

  “Yes, and thank you,” Aradma replied. “I’m sure we all appreciate that.”

  “For now,” the duke proclaimed, “let the feast continue.”

  The dinner became a party, and for the most part the seelie—those who weren’t gr
ieving their own losses—warmed to the hospitality.

  Aradma smiled sadly. She was glad for her people, but the ache in her heart was too fresh.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your man,” Attaris said. He sipped a tankard of beer. “I can’t imagine losing Hylda.”

  Aradma smiled again in spite of herself. “You two are together now?”

  “Aye, married!” he beamed. “I moved in with her. Me—in the city. Can you imagine?”

  Hylda poked him playfully in the ribs. “You should offer her your old place,” the dwarven woman prompted.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Attaris agreed. “You’ll need a home, Aradma. It’s not much but it’s cozy. And it has privacy.”

  Aradma nodded. “I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that a lot.”

  Two days later, the other seelie started to find city apartments from where they would make longer-term plans. Rajamin’s collection of gems from Dragonholm provided everyone with enough wealth to get a life started. Aradma and Suleima moved into Attaris’ house in the slopes of the surrounding Windmane Mountains. Aradma wanted to be away from people for the most part, and Suleima wanted to stay at her side and help her as a friend and midwife.

  Attaris and Hylda came to visit them shortly after they moved in. November had just arrived, and it was a sunny crisp morning. They stood together in the garden under a pure blue sky.

  “I do love the fresh mountain air,” Attaris said.

  “I offered to move here,” Hylda needled him.

  “Your work is in the city,” Attaris replied. “You need to be there.”

  “How have things been here?” Aradma asked.

  “Well, the covens are gone,” Attaris said. “But with the Artalonian Empire fallen, the Kaldorites have stepped into public light.”

  “It was time,” Hylda affirmed.

  “Anyway,” continued Attaris. “Hylda’s paladins have filled the void the sorcerers left. They are most welcome, and there’s even been talk about reviving the old Archurionite Church, honoring all the gods!”

  “I am sure Rajamin would like that,” Aradma said. “And Suleima is a runewarden as well. Maybe you can make that reality.”

  “But let’s not call it Archurionite anymore,” Hylda said. “As much as I admire the Gold Dragon, I think that name comes with too much baggage now.”

  “Aye,” agreed Attaris.

  “What about the girl who saved me? What was her name?”

  “Seredith,” Hylda stated. “The revenant keeps to herself. After all, she is undead. But the duke allows her to live, and she stays high in one of his towers. I think, the same tower he kept you in. Other than that, I don’t know.”

  “Where is Arda?” Aradma asked.

  Attaris answered, “She left to find Kaldor when you left with the trolls. I’ve not heard a word from her since.”

  “I hope she’s okay.”

  “Me too, lass. Me too.”

  Once more, Aradma thought of Tiberan. She couldn’t help it. Tears flooded her eyes.

  “Lass!” Hylda exclaimed.

  “I’m sorry,” Aradma said, wiping away the moisture from her cheeks. “I just can’t stop thinking about him.”

  Suleima hugged her. “I know,” Suleima told her. “I understand. But you will get through this.”

  Aradma sniffled.

  “Lass,” Attaris said gently. “There is pain in life, and there is joy. You have suffered a loss, but think of what you have gained. A home. Friends who love you. And your people—you’ve found a haven for them, too. They are safe, with a bright future, and from what you’ve said, there are more out there in the world just waiting to be discovered. Most didn’t have a chance to answer the beacon. Don’t forget the reasons for joy in your life.”

  “Attaris is right,” Hylda agreed. “Find the good things, and that will hold the line against the darkness. You have tasted suffering, and that makes you mortal, like us. Alive.”

  “It’s okay to cry,” Suleima added. “Don’t be embarrassed by your tears. We are your friends; you can trust us to be careful with your heart.”

  Aradma listened to her, and she surrendered to the grief. She wept openly as her friends held her. When she was done crying, she rested in their embrace for some time afterwards.

  November came and went, ushering in the snows of winter. December arrived, and then the end of December, when everyone anticipated Highwinter celebrations. Rajamin, with Attaris’ and Suleima’s help, set up a small church in the city. It was modest, for the Windbowlians were not in crisis as the Artalonians had been. There was nothing that drove them in search of answers. Rajamin’s congregation grew slowly as people thoughtfully considered his teachings and decided to support and embrace it. One by one, he built a small congregation, so that when Highwinter approached, he had forty people eager to celebrate the rite of Keruhn’s birth.

  And though Aradma did not participate in Rajamin’s congregation—she was still unsure as to what she thought of gods—she joined them for the Highwinter celebration. She felt the spirit of kinship among the people in the church. It did not matter if they were human, wolven, darkling, ratling, orc, or the handful of seelie who had responded to Rajamin’s word. They were all children under the Light.

  In February, Aradma went into labor exactly one year and one day after her lightfall. Suleima had already prepared the birthing bed in anticipation, having purchased extra cushions in town well in advance. The troll woman prepared the buckets of water, three of them, one hot, one cold, and one mildly warm, placing runestones within them to keep their temperatures constant throughout the labor. She took a sponge to the cold water and dabbed Aradma’s forehead while she coached her breathing and pushing. The deepest pit of Aradma’s belly ached with thick pain as her muscles contracted. She knew she was supposed to push, but wanted nothing more than to give up. Suleima gently prodded her.

  The contractions stopped and returned in cycles for twelve hours. Aradma’s body was slick with sweat, and she cried out to the gods. In one final effort she screamed, and her screams were joined by the young cries of her daughter as her baby’s head emerged from between her legs.

  Suleima took her daughter’s head and whispered, “One more. Push. You’re almost done.”

  She gathered her strength for a final push, letting forth a cry, and then Suleima lifted the child out of her body. She washed the baby in mild water, cutting the cord after its pulsing relaxed and the flow of blood between mother and child equilibrated.

  “Let me see her,” Aradma whispered, lying back on the bed in relief at the absence of the gut-wrenching contractions.

  “Are you sure Odoune is the father?” Suleima asked as she handed the child to her mother. “She is no troll.”

  Aradma looked in wonder at the little life. Her baby looked up at her with dark eyes. The girl didn’t cry, but stared up at the fuzzy haze of lights around her. She cooed when Aradma gazed down at her. Love filled Aradma’s heart so intensely that it hurt. Her eyes moistened with joy, wiping away all grief. Any emptiness she had felt at losing Tiberan was filled by this little girl, her daughter, staring up into her eyes.

  Suleima was right. The child was no troll. She had no tusk-nubs on her cheeks, and her ears were long like her mother’s. But her eyes did not glow. She had dark blue irises around deeply curious pupils. Her sage-green skin held no seelie body-marks. She was born without Fae memories, completely her own being. The thin downy layer of hair on her head was the dark green of ferns and moss.

  “I am sure,” she answered. “There was no other man before I became pregnant.”

  “What will you call her?”

  Aradma thought for a long moment. She had considered various names from the Fae, or something from the Dragon tongue, but this little girl wasn’t of them. She was only Aradma and Odoune’s. The girl might have been fully seelie, but she had the coloring of her father and reminded Aradma of the deep forest.

  “Fernwalker,” she decided. “She shall be F
ernwalker.”

  She remembered Valkrage’s words about the Stag Throne. She remembered there was something left undone. The Dragon memories inside her knew it was important, though she couldn’t say what it was. The pink scar on Aradma’s belly tingled with a slight burning sensation, almost the afterthought of a memory, and she followed its ridges thoughtfully with her fingertips.

  Valkrage, Graelyn, and everything having to do with Dragons or gods could go to hell. She was done leading people. She would not guess what others should do with their lives. She would leave them alone and let their lives grow untouched, while she kept her little one safe.

  Aradma gently kissed her baby’s soft head. She felt the warmth of new life on her lips. “My precious Fernwalker. I love you so much.”

  Suleima helped Aradma sit upright and loosen her gown, freeing her breasts to the air. She cradled her daughter, and Fernwalker suckled eagerly for Aradma’s milk.

  This, Aradma thought to herself. This is what it means to be truly alive.

  EPILOGUE

  For Light’s Truth

  The sitting room in the Kaldorite safe house in the city of Astiana was just as Arda remembered it: functionally furnished yet comfortable. Her commander’s secretary desk sat up against the back wall as always, clear of dust and reflecting the window’s daylight in its highly polished wood.

  She had sent word ahead to expect her arrival, and he was waiting for her when she gave the secret knock. He opened the door, and instead of the usual formalities, he embraced his former student.

  “It’s been too long,” he said.

  “I’ve been busy,” she grinned. She released the embrace and clasped his hands. “It’s good to see you again.” He was her commanding officer, but in many ways he was like a father to her. Attaris had found Arda and brought her to Tulley, and it was Tulley who had raised her in the Order.