by Alex Raizman
If Karjon had known, he’d taken that secret to the grave with him. Their secret had not been recorded in any of his notebooks that she’d been able to recover.
“Share your thoughts?” Eupheme asked quietly. She’d wrapped herself fully in her cloak and looked like a blob of shadow that had taken residence in the pilot seat of the Skitter.
“I’m being morose,” Tythel admitted, forcing herself to smile. She’d gotten better at that since she’d left the valley, but this one felt faker than usual to her. “Thinking about what made this valley. The mountain used to be volcanic. Dad formed his lair in the old caldera. But the valley itself was the result of something before even his records.”
“Any idea what made it?” Tellias asked. It was a relief to have him join the conversation unprompted. The tension between them had been fading over the course of the ride, although there was still a gap between them that Tythel could still feel. It was, oddly enough, something on his face. Some expression she couldn’t quite place, but an expression she could still read on some level below the conscious.
“Logically, the easiest explanation was some huge stone falling from the sky, out of the void the Alohym came from. If there can be other worlds up there, it stands to reason that the myths of flaming stones that fall from the heavens are based on reality.” Tythel shook her head.
“But you don’t believe that,” Tellias said, shifting forward slightly. To conserve power, his arcplate wasn’t active, meaning he had nothing but his own muscles to move the dozens of stones worth of steel encasing his body.
“No, I don’t.” Tythel said. They were at the gap now, the one break in the wall that surrounded the valley. The space between the stones was not as mysterious as the stones themselves. Karjon had deliberately shattered the barrier there, to allow animals to travel in and out on their own. At least, that was the reason that Karjon had given her back then. But if that had been why, wouldn’t he have shattered it in the hundreds of years before her life?
No, it seemed most likely he’d done it in case anything were to happen to him, to make sure Tythel wouldn’t be trapped within the crater.
“I think it was the ancient Alohym. If it was a skystone, there would be more like this valley, but I’ve never seen anything like it. This…the stone cooled in an instant to form like this. That’s not how anything else works, other than the Light, but we have no lumwell here.”
“Light and shadow, that’s quite the thought,” Tellias muttered.
“It’s also good for us,” Eupheme said, pulling down the hood of her cloak. “The nearest Lumwell is back in Hillsdale, and it’s a small one. Their lumcaster won’t be able to pull much power from it. He’ll be limited.”
Tythel nodded. “We’ll also have shadows all day long around the edge, at least on this side.”
“We’ll need to get out of them,” Eupheme said, her shoulders stiffening. “If Leora shows up with them…she’s better in the shadows than I am. I think I can match her if we stay in the sunlight, but in a shadow that large, she’ll tear me apart. All of us, really.”
“You’re a bright little lumwell, aren’t you?” Tellias muttered.
“I’m a realist,” Eupheme snapped, with far more vitriol than Tellias teasing had called for.
“The important thing,” Tythel interjected, trying to get the words in before the argument between the two could ignite, “is that the illusion my father had woven over the valley will mean we can negate the biggest advantage Catheon has over us.”
The Skitter went silent at the mention of Catheon. Having a name for the human that wore an Alohym skin like a suit of arcplate should have made him less intimidating, less mysterious. He wasn’t some strange figure; he was a person with a name.
But instead, his name just raised more question. It wasn’t a human name. It sounded akin to Rephylon or Metymon or other named Alohym. Yet the voice inside was human.
“Even on the ground, can we really beat him?” Tellias asked.
Tythel shrugged. “I don’t know. But we can try. I’m sure of that much. And if we can manage to pull it off…we’ll have taken down a real threat.”
“And if we die, the drop I set up in Hillsdale will make sure de’Monchy learns of our fate.” Eupheme said. The tension was fading from her shoulder some. “At least he’ll be warned of what’s coming – and that we won’t be.”
Tythel nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, but then they were past the wall and in the valley.
Ahead, she could see her father’s tomb, and the sight tore the words from her.
The crystal bottle that had once held the Phoenix Flame lay still lay in the grass where Tythel had dropped it as she left this valley. It was now home to a small mouse and her pups, who apparently didn’t mind that predators could see them. Not when they were safely in a bottle that had contained liquid hot enough to burn a dragon’s lifeless body to ash. Tythel hopped out the Skitterer and began to walk towards where that ash had been left – her father’s last resting place.
In her grief, she hadn’t thought about Phoenix Flame and what that would mean. The phoenix were a race of dragonkin that had gone extinct during the era of her great grandsire, the necromantic dragon Grejax that had created the lair Armin was now delving into. The timing was no coincidence – Grejax had waged a genocidal campaign against these creatures that could defy death. Their name, in the old Draconic tongue, meant “Second-Born,” a reference to their phenomenal regenerative prowess. Aside from that, Karjon had spoken only little of them, save that their flames had been opposite those of normal dragons – a Phoenix could breathe Heartflame from birth, and only later would learn Ghostflame. Their third flame was similar to Dragonflame, but for two key differences.
Phoenix Flame lacked the sheer destructive potential of Dragonflame. It was hotter than any flame mankind could produce, and hot enough to burn a dragon’s scales, but it was still dwarfed by the heat their scaled cousins could produce. However, unlike Dragonflame, it did not just leave behind ash. It helped decompose that which it burned, accelerating years of natural breakdown into a handful of seconds.
And dragon bodies fueled plant life unlike anything else in the world.
In the year since she’d been gone, the spot where her father had been cremated had transformed. It was awash with Drakebloom. The flowers grew taller than even the Sunflowers that sometimes lined the roads, their stalks twisted and arched to look like a dragon rearing up to let loose its breath weapon. Their petals were red and orange and gold and glistened with morning dew. Bees, stripped green and black, flitted among them. When the Drakebloom was ready to reproduce, the flower would rise up until it was facing the sky, then spray its seeds. It was said to look like a dragon flaming as the red and gold seeds caught the air to be carried away.
Tythel had to swallow to process the implications. Drakebloom could breed true with other flowers though some process Karjon had not been able to explain. It was still rare because dragons normally incinerated their dead, and much of the nutrients gained through normal breakdown were lost. Where they weren’t incinerated, they would decompose only slowly.
But Tythel had incinerated Karjon with Phoenix Flame. Everything in his body had been returned to the earth in an instant.
The Drakebloom would spread throughout the valley. Eventually, enough seeds would crest over the wall to spread into the rest of the world. The normal yellow honey bees outside would take over from the green bees of Karjon’s valley, and they would spread the Drakebloom further.
Dragons may be gone, but Drakebloom would one day be as common as lilies.
Tears threatened to well in Tythel’s eyes. She hadn’t meant to, but she’d given Karjon a legacy even better than the cold stone she’d carved for him. It was still there, although she had to brush away some vines that had begun to creep their way up the mass of rock. She traced her fingers along the letters of the message she’d written, so long ago.
Here lies Karjon the Magnificent
>
Who battled the Wizards of the 9th Circle
Dueled the dread necromancer Gix
Sat upon the Council of Twelve
And was the greatest Father to have lived.
Behind her, she could hear Eupheme and Tellias dismount from the Skitter. They spoke briefly amongst themselves – “Is that her father-” Tellias started to say, but before he could finish, Eupheme interrupted.
“I think so. Help me unpack this? I think she needs a moment.”
“I imagine she needs more than that,” Tellias said, but not in an argumentative tone. He sounded somber, and at that moment, Tythel could have hugged them both.
She didn’t. Instead, she savored the moment here, pressing her hand against the cold stone as she once had against her father’s warm scales. I’m sorry I didn’t come back sooner, Father, she thought, and in the twilight shadow she could almost imagine the Drakebloom formed his profile perfectly. It’s been a long year. I’ll tell you all about it once we’re done. But…right now, I need your protection again.
Tythel knew her father well. He would have hunkered down, bringing himself eye-level with her, and cocked his head just slightly. He would have said “What trouble you, my child?” Or something along those lines. Immediate concern for her, the rest to be considered later.
The Alohym – Those From Above – have a new thing. A thing that is half human and half of them. It hunts me and my friends. I don’t…I don’t know if I’m strong enough to beat it. The feeling of tears continued to build, and her nictitating membranes began to flash in reflex.
This time, she could practically hear him. “Of course you are. You are my daughter, after all.”
I’m still human. I’m still too weak. I think I lead us all to our deaths.
“Oh, really? Then tell me, my beautiful human daughter – why don’t you weep?”
Tythel knew the voice wasn’t real. Knew it was her filling in what he would be saying – but also realized he was right. She brought her hand up to her cheek and found it dry. Her nictitating membranes were still flashing – the way dragons relieved sadness, their version of a human’s tears – but tear ducts were human things. Dragons shed no tears.
Tythel shed no tears.
Finding one more thing in common with her father made her smile even through the flashes of her membranes. She slid her hand down the stone and stepped back.
Even if they died here, she’d do so with the knowledge she’d taken on one more draconic trait before she passed.
Tythel turned to help Eupheme and Tellias unload the Skitter. She could sense their desire to comfort but their uncertainty about doing so. When she met Eupheme’s eyes, she shook her head, but made herself smile.
Knowing they cared was enough.
In the distance, Tythel heard the buzzing of Catheon’s wings, and knew that soon this valley would be a battleground once again.
She glanced at her father’s grave one last time as they moved to pick the point where they would engage the enemy and silently made a vow.
No matter what happened here, the Drakebloom would be unharmed.
Chapter 43
Armin awoke in darkness. He thrust his hands forwards into the shadow, groping blindly for anything he could find. For a moment all he felt were the aches of his own muscles, protesting the movement. I’m dead. This isn’t shadow, it’s the Shadow, and I’ll be judged for my failures here. His failures like Clarcia. In the darkness, he could see the way her head had jerked back, that terrible wound in the center of her forehead, the Light going out of her eyes to be followed by the light of life. She’d be here. Had the others survived? Had they-
His fingers brushed stone, and Armin realized he still lived. Relief and despair washed over him in equal measure. Relief because if he was alive, the others might still live as well. It wasn’t too late for him to do something for them.
Despair because it would do Clarcia no good. She would not magically resurrect because Armin had survived. And that was a burden he would have to carry.
Something made a scraping sound in the darkness. Armin shivered. There was something wrong about that sound.
Mindful of the sound, Armin took a hesitant step, keeping his fingers pressed against the stone to guide himself. When the ground did not give way beneath his feet, he took another step. This one was accompanied by the metallic slither of chains being dragged along the ground, echoing in the empty cell.
Not dead. Captured. Armin took another step, keeping his hand on the wall. He walked until the chain had reached its limit – only a few steps, and not enough to reach the opposite wall.
If the others are alive, they aren’t in here. Or if they were, they were still unconscious. Either way, he had to take stock of what he had to work with. If they were alive, he had to do something for them. Ossman, Aldreda, Guiart, even Synit – whom he’d only known for hours – flashed in front of his vision. What if they weren’t? What if he’d gotten them all killed?
He tried to grapple with that idea. His oldest friend, two brave soldiers of the resistance, and a woman who might have held the key to defeating the Alohym, all dead along with Clarcia because of his failure. Something scraped again. It sounded like wood on wood, but somehow different. It was happening outside the edge of his reach. Probably something on the other side of whatever door is on this room. That thought comforted Armin, and with the relief, tears began to well in his eyes. For once, Armin was glad for the darkness. He didn’t need to stop his exploration of his cell to clear his vision. He could weep while he explored.
Three steps later he was on his knees, his head in his hands.
It’s your fault. He should have…should have…
Armin couldn’t figure out where his failure was. If he’d left behind guards, they would have died first. If he’d waited to go in, they would have been between Theognis and the entrance and been cut down when they left. He couldn’t have arrived earlier, no matter how hard he’d pushed – maybe an hour or two. If they hadn’t rested after the battle with the undead, they would have collapsed halfway down the immensely long path that lead to the abandoned lair.
It only made the tears come harder. Duke de’Monchy would have known what to do. Somehow, he would have figured it out.
You’re a failure.
Armin couldn’t argue with the treacherous little voice. It felt so right.
The scraping sound brought him to his senses. Though he was a failure, there was no reason to compound that with inaction. He forced himself to stand and resume walking, arms outstretched, as he traced the length of the chain and reached the opposite wall. Well done, Armin, he thought bitterly, you’ve made it across a room. If there was anything in here he could use, it wasn’t on the walls. As long as he was blind, he couldn’t do anything.
Taking a deep breath, Armin reached out for the Lumwell nearby.
Its power flared within him, and even with his weak lumcasting, he could create a globe of light. It burst to life in the palm of his hand.
The room was stone and worn by the ages. Some back room the dragon had once used for storage, perhaps. The chain was held in place by an iron loop embedded in the wall, which suggested this room might have stored something other than treasure. He tugged at it, but it remained securely in place. Of course.
He turned to find the entrance. It was a wooden door, out of reach of the chain, and blocked by a small figure. His heart caught in his throat. He knew that outfit, he knew that hair. “Clarcia?” he said, choking out the word as excitement made his throat tight. It’s not possible. I saw her die! It must have been better than I feared.
Clarcia didn’t respond. Her head was pressed against the wood of the door, and she had curled her fingers. As Armin watched, she raised her fingers to the door and dragged them down against the wood. The wood scraped under her grip.
