by Jak Koke
Cars in front and behind Dunkelzahn’s limousine flew up into the air. Trees burst into flames, and Dunkelzahn bellowed in pain, a telepathic scream exploding inside her head before the physical sound reached her ears.
Out of the explosion, Nadja saw him emerge in dragon form, his body a ghostly white behind the flash spot on her retina. A transparent specter, the detailed scalloped ridge of each scale glimmered with white fire, but there was no solidity to him. Only the outline of him left, writhing in desperate agony as his ancient flesh disintegrated.
Then he was gone and the blast wave hit her, a wall of fire and kinetic thunder, lifting her off her feet and hurling her backward through the glass doors. She landed on the plush carpeting, the shattered glass cutting her in a thousand places, and somehow she was still alive. Still in one piece even though she knew that was impossible. The explosion should have killed her.
Now, standing at the balcony’s railing, Nadja shook her head to clear away the memories. She wiped tears from her face with a handkerchief and stood up straight. Carla hadn’t been able to explain why the explosive blast had been contained, had stopped and reversed itself. That was the only reason that Nadja had survived at all. Carla had found no magical barrier. Nothing simple like that. The best Carla had come up with was that somehow, when the manastorm had been created, the blast energy had been sucked back into the vortex and had vented into astral space and the metaplanes.
Perhaps it was a lucky accident that Nadja was still alive while Dunkelzahn—the creature who had been her master, her benefactor, and teacher—had been vaporized. Or perhaps whoever had killed Dunkelzahn had wanted to protect those at the inaugural ball—the many powerful people inside the Watergate Hotel.
Now, Nadja became aware of Gordon Wu’s presence at her side and slightly behind her. Gordon was her aide, extremely reliable, with a perfect sense of etiquette. He waited without sound for Nadja to acknowledge his presence.
Nadja hardened her will, and turned toward him. Gordon was a short human of Asian heritage outfitted with a simsense rig that recorded everything he experienced while on duty. He also had a separate headcamera as a backup; it could record full-motion video or stills, if necessary.
Nadja nodded for him to speak.
“There are two elves here to see you,” Gordon said. “They do not have an appointment, but when I told them this, one of them laughed and the other got angry. They persisted until I promised to announce them. I am supposed to tell you that Aina is here.”
Nadja felt a thrill of excitement. Aina was in Dunkelzahn’s will and was to be offered a position on the Draco Foundation’s board of directors. Among the various secret documents that had come into Nadja’s possession after Dunkelzahn’s death was a statement regarding Aina, a warning that while her participation in the Draco Foundation was crucial, she would most likely be reluctant to join.
Nadja had tried to contact Aina many times since the reading of the will, but none of her telecom messages had been answered. Until now.
Nadja gave Gordon a smile and indicated for him to lead on. She followed him through the double glass doors and into the living room where two elves waited. One stood by the tali windows, and there was a coldness to her stance.
Distance.
She wore comfortable blue jeans and a white t-shirt, and her features were striking. Her skin was deep black in tone, her hair shockingly white and very straight, cropped close her skull. She wore no make-up, but her elven features needed no emphasis to enhance their sharpness.
This is Aina, Nadja thought.
Aina studied Nadja intently as she walked in, seeming to scrutinize Nadja’s aura as well as her physical body. Aina did not smile; there was a sadness to her expression. Which was to be expected; she had just lost a dear friend in Dunkelzahn.
The elf sitting on the blond leather couch was a man. Also quite striking, he wore his long auburn hair pulled straight back into a pony tail. His face was painted clown-white and there were diamond shapes done in red make-up over each eye and a smile painted on his face. Like a jester at court.
Under the make-up, his face seemed weathered and quite handsome, bearing no scars except perhaps the faintest hint of one just next to his left ear. He wore tight-fitting black jeans that were humorously about ten years out of fashion, a Maria Mercurial shirt, and a black leather jacket festooned with assorted pins. Despite the outside heat, he did not seem to be perspiring.
He smiled at Nadja as she entered the room. “Miss Daviar, so good of you to see us. My name is Harlequin and this is Aina.”
Nadja returned the smile, then turned to Aina. “I’m glad you came. I've been wanting to talk to you about joining the Draco Foundation.”
“You can talk,” Aina said. “And I might even listen. But like all the other grave-robbers, we’re merely here to collect our booty from the dragon’s hoard.” She gave a sarcastic laugh. “I’m here for my hope.”
Nadja shivered a little inside at the woman’s tone, though she tried not to show it. One of the entries in Dunkelzahn’s Last Will and Testament was directed at Aina. The old wyrm had expressed sorrow at the great suffering that had plagued Aina, and he had left her the one most valuable thing he had to offer—hope.
Dunkelzahn had intended that by joining the Draco Foundation, Aina would gain hope as she learned of the power of his far-reaching plans. Nadja felt that Aina needed her as much as she needed Aina. But the black elf’s blase attitude toward Dunkelzahn’s offer of hope was far from encouraging.
“And I’ll do my best to make sure you get your hope,” Nadja said, her tone completely serious. “It was Dunkelzahn’s wish that you be informed of the inner workings of the Draco Foundation and help in the long-term guidance and development of the plans he laid out.”
The elf called Harlequin chuckled. “Just your style,” he said to Aina. “Sitting behind a big corporate conference table and pushing papers.”
Sarcasm seemed to be the sauce of the day.
Nadja ignored Harlequin. “I’d like to discuss this in more detail at your convenience,” she told Aina, “but I’m afraid it’ll have to be solo.”
“You can trust Caimbeul, er, Harlequin.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I'm afraid I can’t. Dunkelzahn specified you and you alone. Perhaps Mr. Harlequin can excuse us for a few hours.”
Harlequin laughed again. “You’ve certainly got balls,” he said to Nadja. “I’m beginning to see why Dunkelzahn chose you.”
Nadja turned toward him. “While I’m afraid that I can’t let you check personally, I assure you that I don’t have balls, sir. I am quite female.”
Harlequin threw his head back in laughter, genuine and deep. Even Aina smiled. Still, Harlequin made no movement to leave. After his laughter had died down, he looked hard at Nadja. “Actually, I have come to claim something from the dragon hoard as well.”
Nadja brought her full attention on him. “I remember no mention of a Harlequin in any of Dunkeizahn’s papers.”
“He rarely referred to me as such,” Harlequin said. “He had many other names for me, most of them unspeakable in polite company.”
Aina gave a harsh laugh. “As if this qualifies as polite.”
Harlequin ignored her and continued. “The second to last item in Dunkeizahn’s public will leaves the sword Excalibur and King Richard the Lionheart’s suit of armor to the Last Knight of the Crying Spire.” He gave himself a self-indulgently cute smile. “That’s me.”
Nadja frowned, imperceptibly. I have made a serious error in judgment. She had made the mistake of assuming that this pompous, painted elf was merely an annoying friend or lackey of Aina’s acquaintance.
I cannot afford such misjudgments, she thought. Not in my position.
“I'm very sorry for not recognizing you,” she said. “Dunkeizahn didn’t leave me a key to the identities of everyone to whom he willed items.”
“Actually, I’m a little hurt that he didn’t tell you about me,” Harlequin
said. “We were close.”
Aina looked at the painted elf. “I’m sure he did it as a purposeful slight,” she said. “Just a last little insult that you can’t return. It’s brilliant actually.”
Harlequin flashed a harsh glare at Aina, but when he spoke, his tone was light. “Perhaps, but I tend to think that he just wanted to protect my identity. You can see that he intended to put you in the spotlight.”
Nadja jumped in. “That’s not true! He merely hoped that Aina would join in the long-term goals of the Draco Foundation. It does not necessitate public exposure. I can handle most of that.”
Aina moved away from the window and sat down next to Harlequin. “I can vouch for his claim to be the Last Night of the Crying Spire,” she said.
Nadja nodded. “All right, let me get the official forms.” She nodded to Gordon Wu, who brought over a small computer and handed it to her. Nadja punched up the instructions Dunkelzahn had left for her, and read off the first of four questions. “Who sits at the bridge, protecting us from the Enemy?”
Harlequin nearly jumped in his seat. “What?”
“These questions were left by Dunkelzahn to judge the veracity of someone’s claim.”
His composure returned instantly. “Thayla,” he said. Nadja made a mental note. This elf knows about Thayla. I should tell Ryan about him.
She read the next question. “Whose daughter have you taken on as pupil? Or, is that concubine?”
Harlequin narrowed his eyes.
Aina gave a harsh laugh. “Score one for the wyrm.”
Nadja simply waited, trying to keep her composure. Finally, Harlequin answered, “Ehran the Scribe’s daughter, and I’m teaching her.”
“Two down,” Nadja said. “Two to go. The next is: how old are you?”
Harlequin looked at Aina.
As response, she shrugged.
Seconds ticked by as Harlequin pondered what to say. Nadja shifted in her seat. The answer on the screen was difficult to believe, and there was a note saying that the true Knight of the Crying Spire would be unwilling to divulge the information. The instructions said to make him sweat to see what he would say, then ask him the last question.
“I’m a few years younger than her,” he said, indicating Aina.
Nadja simply stared at him. “That’s not an answer.”
“A lot younger than Dunkelzahn or Lofwyr, and far older than you.”
Nadja crossed her arms and waited.
Aina looked at Harlequin.
Harlequin began to sweat.
“It says here,” Nadja said, “that. . .” She hesitated.
“What does it say?”
“It says you’re over three hundred years old.”
Harlequin breathed a sigh, “I've aged well,” he said. Nadja knew, of course, that elves were long-lived, and she was aware of the rumors concerning the immortals, but she’d never given any of it much credence before now. She took a slow breath. “Last question: what was the original name of the Crying Spire?”
Without hesitation. “The Crimson Spire.”
Nadja nodded. “Congratulations, your claim is officially valid. You can take possession of the armor today, or I can ship it to you. I’m sorry to say that the sword Excaliber is currently lost. We’re looking for it.”
“You can send the armor to my place in France, Chateau d'If.”
“Very well.” Then she turned to Aina, who had stood up again, looking like she was ready to leave. “And what about you? Will you join the Draco Foundation?”
Aina gave her a sad look. “Dunkelzahn was a very close friend,” she said. “And for that reason only, I will think about it.”
Then she pulled on Harlequin’s ponytail. “Come on, Caimbeul, let’s go.”
“When will I hear from you?”
Aina stopped by the door. “When I’ve decided.” Then she turned and walked out into the hall.
Harlequin paused as he passed Nadja. “I’m impressed, Miss Daviar. She didn’t tell you to frag off. You should consider this a victory.”
Nadja smiled at him as he turned to leave. It didn’t feel like a victory. Aina’s help was crucial to the long-term plan Dunkelzahn had left in his documents. Without her, the whole future of the world could suffer.
3
The fragments of Ryan’s nightmare fluttered in the recesses of his consciousness as Dhin brought the helo down onto the helipad behind Dunkelzahn’s mansion. Ryan said goodbye to the ork and stepped out of the helicopter and into the wind and heat. He ducked, walking across the duracrete toward the door.
Four security agents met him there, and made him look into a portable retinal scanner. The guards knew him and were expecting his return, but security had been tightened in the aftermath of Burnout’s forced entry last night.
As Ryan waited for the scanner to check his retinal image against the datastore and give him clearance to enter, Dhin lifted the bird into the air behind him. The ork would return the helicopter to National Airport for a full systems check and any necessary repairs.
The retinal scanner beeped. The guards smiled at Ryan and waved him through. He headed for his recovery room, trying to keep the recurring images of his dream at bay. His wristphone sounded as he passed into the west wing.
He punched the Connect and found himself looking at the most beautiful face he’d ever known. She had cut her hair again, probably to get rid of the parts burned in the explosion. “Nadja, my sweet, it is so lovely to see you.”
Nadja smiled, her green eyes bright. “Likewise, dear. How are you feeling?”
“I’m completely recovered.” Ryan decided not to discuss his nightmare, which had come back to plague him with visions. “I’m worried about you.”
“I came through without a scratch,” Nadja said. “Burnout didn’t hurt me. There’s still some ringing in my ears from the explosion, but I’ve got an appointment with a snake shaman to see if that can be fixed.”
Ryan smiled. “I’m sorry I pulled you into this.”
“Don’t speak nonsense, Ryan. Burnout kidnapped me. Anyone else would have been stopped by security. You had nothing to do with it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry anyway.”
Nadja smiled. “Stubborn slot.”
Ryan removed his guns and his bandoleer. “That’s me.”
“Do you feel up to having lunch with me?” Nadja said.
“Always."
“I don’t have time to leave the hotel, but I’d love to see you here. Can you make noon?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She disconnected.
Ryan finished removing his running gear and decided to make his way to the arboretum to dance some katas. He needed to think, to sort out some things. Was getting Lethe back important enough to plan a run into Aztlan? Or would that simply divert his attention when it should be focused on his mission?
The Silent Way will help me.
Wearing his black plycra unibody with the Dragon Heart still strapped around his waist, Ryan walked through the house to the arboretum. When he reached the shattered double glass doors, he stepped beyond the yellow hazard tape and into the room where he and Burnout had fought just the night before.
In the center of the room, Ryan began his katas, moving in slow motion, dancing in morning sunshine. Mana came to him through the physical contraction and stretching of his muscles. The power came, bringing focus with it. Concentration into his mind.
All around him were the remnants of the burned arboretum. Scorched plants and blackened marble trees stood beneath open sky. Most of the broken macroglass had been removed, cleaned in the hours since the explosion. Since Ryan had used his distance strike to make Burnout pull the trigger on his Colt Manhunter, and in so doing trigger a massive oxygen explosion.
Miraculously, they had both survived.
Now, the morning air blew cool through the skeletal stone trees of the destroyed arboretum, bringing the smell of cherry blossoms and azaleas from the mansion gardens outside. Dunke
lzahn’s estate boasted some of the most impressive grounds in all of the Washington FDC sprawl. Even so, Ryan could still smell the acrid tinge of burning corpses underneath the aroma of flowers. The stench of death from the sprawl-wide rioting that had followed Dunkelzahn’s assassination two weeks earlier.
Ryan danced the moves of the Silent Way, the physical adept path that Dunkelzahn had taught him years ago, concentrating as his body flowed with deliberately slow gestures. He searched inward as he moved, looking with his magic, until he found his core, the solid rock that was his essence, the fountainhead of all his power. He became centered.
Ryan’s power grew from his core, expanding outward until it touched the Dragon Heart, resting in its pouch by his gut. He sensed the immense puissance from the item, radiating like white-hot spray of sunfire. He could feel it like a molten orb, a searing ball of slag in his stomach, but he did not tap into its power. He had decided to use it only when absolutely necessary.
As his power brushed over the Dragon Heart, the nightmare dream flooded back through his mind . . .
In the dream, he stands on a cracked plane of rock, a rough and windswept wasteland bathed in a light so brilliant and so lustrous that he cannot bear to look at it.
The light sings to him, beckoning for him to come to her. To help her. And all he can think about is pleasing the light. He wants to protect the joyous voice that sings like a chorus of angels.
When he sees the wedge of darkness growing on the rock, a vile stain spreading against the light, he tries to move. He tries to run to the light. He can protect her, he can help.
He finds that he cannot move. An invisible membrane surrounds him, like clear latex, and prevents him from going into the light. The membrane stretches and yields when he pushes against it, but it does not break, and the more he tries, the more he finds himself tangled up in it, struggling to breathe.
