“Aradma’s not perfect,” a voice said softly from the doorway. They all turned to see Attaris standing there. The old dwarven runewarden wore grief on his face from the recent death of his wife. “Hylda’s gone because Aradma was slow to respond.” For the first time, Anuit noticed the gray hairs that had grown in between the orange of his braided beard.
Silence stretched thick over the entire room. Anuit could only imagine what was going through Fernwalker’s head.
The dwarf closed the door behind him and drew up a wooden stool from the side. He sat down, sighing as he placed his hands on his knees. He served Modhrin, the Storm God, but his practice had been held and passed down by his people even through the Shadowlord’s reign. He had never joined Rajamin’s Church of Light. Even though Rajamin’s accepted pantheon included Modhrin in its number, Attaris had no need for new practices. Dwarves cherished the traditions of their ancestors.
“But,” he continued, “I don’t hate her. She wasn’t perfect. None of us are. And she never grew into her own, even after all this time. Since she’s been with us in the world, bad things happen every time she withdraws and seeks to escape her responsibility. Whether it’s from a desire not to meddle in others’ affairs, or a desire to protect her loved ones at all other costs, she is not here for herself alone. Suleima is right, and even Rajamin saw this, as twisted as he was in the end. All our fates will depend on Aradma before the end.”
Anuit stared at him incredulously. “You sound very sure of yourself,” she said. “What do you know that you’re not telling us?”
He regarded her patiently. “Where is Arda?”
Anuit shook her head.
Oriand responded. “She’s tracking the troglodytes who took Aradma from the gypsies, along with the unseelie. The light elf we knew as Athaym is—”
“Klrain,” Attaris finished for her. “Yes, I know. If Klrain has Aradma, rescuing her will be difficult. Artalon is important, and I think the Storm Lord intends to help you unlock it.”
“What do you know? How do you know this?” Anuit challenged again, suspicious of the runewarden. He may not have been caught up in Rajamin’s cult, and he may have been a lifelong loyal comrade-in-arms to Arda, but he still worshipped a god.
“An old dwarf stopped me in the road,” he said. He stroked his beard and then scratched his head briefly. “I think—I think it was…”
“Modhrin,” Suleima finished for him. “You think he was Modhrin. What did he say?”
Attaris appeared bemused. “I’m to go with you to Artalon and help you,” he said. “I don’t know if he was Modhrin himself. More likely a messenger, but he had the feel of my god, if you take my meaning. I knew it in my heart that I should heed his words. He said the gods are sick, and Artalon is the key to bringing balance.”
That’s one way of putting it, Anuit snidely thought. The gods and demons are both just creatures of the Kairantheum, given form by our thoughts and feelings. The difference is, we sorcerers are taught not to serve demons. You give yourself over to the gods. They are no different. How can we trust you?
She kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to reveal more, and he didn’t seem to understand that the gods were, in fact, creations of those who worshipped them. The gods didn’t know it because their people didn’t know it. The gods believed they created mortalkind, because their people believed it. Anuit knew the truth: Artalon would allow them to regain control of that which made the gods possible, the sidhe-constructed magical field of the Kairantheum which permeated the world. The high elves had created the Kairantheum to harness the world’s magic and form a shield against Those Who Dwell Beyond. Anuit didn’t know what they were, but the magical defense had taken a life of its own, spawning gods, spirits, and demons. She didn’t want to balance or heal anything. She knew that controlling the Kairantheum meant they could control the gods themselves, and finally they would take their rightful place alongside demons as servitors of mortalkind, not masters.
Oriand nodded. “So, we go to Artalon then.”
Attaris shook his head. “Not without Arda and Aradma.”
It was Anuit’s turn to be surprised. “Wait! Why Arda?”
“Kaldor passed Archurion’s seal of authority to her,” Attaris said.
Suleima sucked in a breath. “She’s the Seal of Light!”
Oriand shook her head. “I don’t know what that means,” the troll woman said.
Anuit was the only one who knew Kaldor had done this. She had been there beside Arda when the wizard passed away. Before the very end, he had given something to Arda, something he called “Archurion’s seal.” Anuit didn’t understand what it meant, and neither did Arda. They hadn’t spoken much of it since. How did the dwarf know?
“The messenger didn’t explain it,” he replied, “but he said it’s important that if the bearer of Klrain’s seal makes a play for God Spire, the seals of the three good Archdragons must oppose him as they have always done.”
“It means she bears the authority of the Light!” Suleima exclaimed, caught in religious fervor. “She is the Light! The Living Seal!”
“Aradma has Graelyn’s seal,” Anuit murmured. “Kaldor revealed this before he died. He said she doesn’t know.”
Suleima stared at her and trembled. “The Seal of Life,” she breathed in awe. “No wonder the gods wanted her. No wonder Rajamin…”
“If what you say is true,” Oriand said, shooting Suleima an annoyed glance, “then Athaym has Klrain’s seal.”
“The pattern repeats itself,” Suleima stated. “The Black Dragon tried to take Artalon at the end of the Second Age. The Gold Dragon sunk the city and the Three re-bound Klrain in dragonsleep. Now the Black Dragon’s scion makes a bid for Artalon, and the Three must oppose him.” Her face lit in rapture. “The Turning of an age!” she breathed. “The Fourth Age is at hand! This must be the gods’ plan!”
“But the Seal of Time is lost,” Oriand frowned. “Valkrage is dead.”
“Then we pray to the gods it remains lost,” Attaris said. “If the wrong person seizes it…”
Suleima shook her head. “I don’t think a wizard exists who could do such a thing. It is out of our reach and in the hands of the gods.”
Attaris nodded. “Aye.”
Oriand frowned. “I do not put my faith in gods or myth-spun patterns,” she stated calmly, “but the Archdragons were mortal, and I would see my friends safely home. One thing is clear: whoever controls Artalon will decide our fate, and I’d rather it be shaped by people than by gods; and of mortals, I’d rather it be us than Athaym and his troglodytes! Not for Turnings or prophecy, but for our friends, our loved ones. For each other.”
She sounds like Aradma, Anuit though. The sorceress too did not trust the dwarf or his god’s mysterious messenger, but going back to help Arda… she never should have listened to the paladin in the first place. The dark-skinned sorceress jumped up from the sofa. “Let’s go,” she urged. “Arda’s down there in the dark and may need our help. I was foolish to leave her.”
“First, I need some things from my cellar,” Attaris said, standing.
“Things?”
“We’re spelunking, lass.” He smiled. “Arda and I have explored the deep places of Ahmbren. One doesn’t descend into the Underworld with nothing more than a kerchief and a cap.”
“I’m coming with you,” Suleima said. “If the gods want them found, I will see it through. You’ll want my runes.”
Attaris nodded. “The more power we have, the better, especially if troglodytes are concerned.” He descended into the cellar to retrieve his gear.
Oriand shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re trusting these two, Anuit,” she said. “And you, Odoune. Neither of you are believers. Now you’re letting two priests dictate our actions.”
“It’s Aradma,” Odoune replied, finally breaking his silence. “My mind was made up from the start, even if it meant me going alone. I will bring her home.”
Oriand clenched her fi
sts. “All right then,” she said. “I don’t care about helping your god, but I do want both of them home and safe. I abandoned my faith, so I have no rune magic to help you with. I would only slow you down. I’ll stay here with Fernwalker.”
Odoune stood and grinned. He went over to Oriand and leaned towards her. “I’m glad you’re here.” He spoke softly, but Anuit could hear him. “And I’ll keep an eye on the priests. You keep an eye on my daughter.”
Oriand hugged him for a brief moment and then released him. She stood and busied herself with the stove.
Attaris returned from the cellar with a small backpack on his shoulders. He handed similar packs to the others. They all went out to the garden to Anuit’s magic carpet, and then the four of them were off, flying through the air over the treetops, back to the sinkhole left by the troglodytes’ taking of the gypsy caravan.
Anuit had the brief thought, I hope Arda’s not angry with me.
6 - Descent Into the Underworld
Aradma lay back in Sidhna’s arms, unable to move and barely able to focus on her surroundings. The vampire elf gently sipped blood from Aradma’s neck. Aradma wasn’t sure that Sidhna was mentally coherent any more, so lost was she in the ecstasy of the light elf’s life force.
The vampire venom flowed from Sidhna’s fangs into Aradma’s veins, making it difficult for her to think straight. She felt comfortable with Sidhna holding her, but she knew that feeling wasn’t her own. It was forced upon her, and as much as her rational mind wanted to fight against the vampire, she relaxed into the sensation like a warm wool quilt in a cold winter bedroom. She wanted to throw away the quilt and face cold reality, but she kept choosing not to.
Am I in a bed? No, a cot. There were blankets, and she was lying on her back. Sidhna half sat up against the wall, leaning over so she could get at Aradma’s neck. Their elven ears slid against each other every so often. Occasionally, Sidhna would rise from her sipping to glance at the light elf. Their cheeks would touch, and a look of tenderness would flash across the vampire’s face for the briefest of moments. Then she would return, fixing her lips around Aradma’s slow-bleeding wound. She was being careful, Aradma remembered. He had told her to be careful. He didn’t want Aradma to die.
He sat across the room—was it a room?—staring at the two of them.
No. A wagon. I’m still in the caravan.
She felt the rickety movements of wooden wheels on an uneven stone path. The windows had been drawn shut to protect the vampire from the daylight sun, but somehow Aradma knew that was no longer a concern for them. They were underground. She vaguely remembered loud crunching sounds a few days ago, and feeling as if the wagon had been lifted and carried below the surface.
Days ago…
How long had she been here? The last thing she remembered was Athra’s Jewel coming to life and banishing the goddess Malahkma’s spirit back to the Abyss. But Sidhna had somehow survived, and then he came to claim them both.
The man. The black elf. Oh yes, he was sitting and staring at her right now.
“Athaym,” she murmured his name.
Then she remembered.
Klrain.
She refused to call him that.
The Fae voices in her mind hissed at that name. The red Fae King loomed close in the periphery of her consciousness. I’m sorry, he said. It was the first time she had ever heard compassion from him. You didn’t get away from him after all. Your sacrifice was in vain. What did he mean?
You can still escape, the Fae King said. Let me take over for you. Let me face the Dark Lord in your stead.
“Ah, ah!” Athaym suddenly said, interrupting her thoughts. “Don’t listen to him, my dear Graelyn. I have no desire for you to become unseelie.”
She became aware once more of other people gathered around her in the wagon. Light elves who had fallen to their faerie personalities, possessed by broken memories, huddled around her bed. They were each brightly colored, their skin showing solid red or blue or purple. The luminescence in their eyes had faded, and now their gazes were manic, uncontrolled.
“How?” she finally asked. “The Black Dragon cannot grant life. How did you survive the breaking of the Otherworld?”
He grinned. “My dear sister, you gave me life! Just like all the seelie. As Graelyn’s sparks gathered the fragments of the Otherworld and created light elves from its pieces, one of those sparks made me. I’m seelie. A spark of the Green Dragon lives in me.”
She breathed deeply, struggling to focus her consciousness. “Klrain’s dreamwalker,” she stated. “You were in the Otherworld.”
“Yes. Your life force preserved me and pulled me to Ahmbren.”
“Not me,” she murmured. “I am no more Graelyn than…” She trailed off.
The corner of his mouth turned upwards with the slightest hint of mockery. “Indeed.”
The Fae King in her mind receded back into the inner court where she kept the dead faerie personalities in check. There was something special about her relationship with the Fae King, something more than the other faerie fragments that had been pulled together by the dying spark of the Dragon that made her.
“It’s amazing what guilt will keep us from seeing,” Athaym stated. Then he added, “For those of us who feel such things. The Dark cured me of that long ago.”
“Guilt? What do I have to feel guilty for?”
“She’s sucking on you right now,” he answered.
Sidhna.
“That wasn’t me,” Aradma insisted. “I didn’t abandon her. Graelyn did. I am not my mother.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Mother.
Oh gods, Fernwalker. Where are you? Fernwalker! She wanted to cry out for her daughter, but then she remembered the child growing in her womb, only recently conceived. Another daughter. Kaldor’s daughter.
Oh, Kaldor. Help us.
She felt her daughter’s presence in her womb, strangely calm and clear from the vampire venom. Her daughter had inherited Kaldor’s link to the element of Light. Even now, the forming child channeled a trickle of Light’s power, creating a barrier that Sidhna’s venom couldn’t penetrate.
Aradma sent her mind there. In her daughter’s presence she felt the Light wash through her awareness, returning focus and clarity.
She shuddered, and in that moment re-found her own link to Life. She plunged her soul into the elemental source, opening its energy to flow unhindered through her.
Green light erupted from her body, and Sidhna was thrown back through the wall of the wagon. Its wooden frame shattered as thick vines and branches grew, bursting from Aradma’s skin and the ground beneath her. The unseelie fell away, scrambling to escape as sharp thorns punctured their skin. A dense wall of wood and bark wrapped around her protectively.
I can escape, she thought to herself. I can rise…
She touched her palms to the ground and an intertwined pillar of vines shot up, creating a platform that would carry her up through the surface of the earth.
In one precious moment, her gaze slipped towards Athaym. For a brief instant, the music of his soul distracted her. She heard his cacophony, harmonized by a deep symphony that erupted from him and dominated the music of all those who surrounded him. In that moment, she had clarity of understanding as the pieces came together. Each of the first seelie who made lightfall were those who fell from the remnants of the Otherworld. The Green Dragon’s spirit had been shredded into many pieces, each a central nucleus that gave the faerie remnants of the Otherworld new life. Aradma was the resulting personality formed from the proud, noble, and compassionate heart of Graelyn, which attracted the proud, noble, and compassionate motes of the dead Fae memories. Athaym was something else. The dark aspects of the Green Dragon that felt fear, anger, rage, and guilt gave him life. They had attracted the blackest soul dust in the disintegrating Otherworld: the fullness of Klrain’s dreamwalker himself, the piece of the Black Dragon that had existed in the Otherworld for millennia.
The Green
Dragon gave him life. Without it, he is nothing.
Aradma felt the green spark inside him, buried within husks of the Black Dragon’s essence. She reached out for it. If she could touch it, she and she alone had the power to extinguish it. In that moment, she understood she was the master of all that remained of the Green Dragon, and hers was the power to take away life. If only she could connect to it, shut off his light—
Athaym outstretched his hand. “No,” he said. The plant life around her withered and died, then crumbled to ash under the shadow that flowed from his body. A dark countenance overshadowed him, and a terrifying memory flashed through Aradma’s being that, for a brief moment, paralyzed her with fear.
Trapped in his mind for a thousand years…
She stumbled, and that moment was enough for Athaym to step forward and touch her.
He extended his finger and lightly pressed the center of her sternum.
“No,” he commanded again. “I cannot let you undo me. I revoke your connection to Life.”
She felt a cold, liquid blackness slither into her soul and wash over her heart, covering it in an oily film.
“Aradma,” he addressed the light elf. He spoke in the demonic language of Dis, but somehow, through their dark link, she understood the words. “I bind you to me. Your will to my will. Your purpose to my purpose. Your life to my life. I bind you to me.”
The oily darkness slid from his mind into her soul, concealing her link to Life and closing off her connection to the mystical element. The Dragon’s essence inside her receded into shadow and left her mind alone, a singular mortal presence amid the throng of Fae personalities. She shuddered. Her powers of Life were gone. Her ability to heal, to summon greenery, to shapeshift into the beasts of the world… all gone.
Aradma let out a cry of anguish that wrenched her body, and clenched her fingers and toes. She felt so empty. She wrapped her arms around her belly, not yet swollen enough to show.
Athaym observed her movements. “You are with child,” he stated.
When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set Page 89
