by Paul Smith
them laughing breathlessly. “Enough.” He lent in, kissing Rivan soundly before stooping to retrieve the fallen lantern and hand it to him. “Stupid boy, none of them have got this...” and he squeezed playfully at the semi lolling around in Rivan's pants “...or, more importantly this.” And he touched Rivan reverently on the forehead, smile gone infinitely sad.
“I'm sorry.” Rivan returned the smile lopsidedly, leaning forward to kiss the other man gently on the lips, squeezing his arm. “And now we've only got one lantern. Unless you brought a taper?”
“No need.” Grinning like a showman, the Wraethi flipped the dead lantern's door open and reached inside, snapping his fingers above the wick. There was a pop and a flash that left afterglow dancing in front of Rivan's eyes, and when they cleared again his lantern was lit once more.
“I thought only Daiku could do that sort of thing.” His eyes grew wide in comprehension. “You're Sighted...”
But the Wraethi was shaking his head. “Not a gift I ever carried.” He held up a finger, forestalling further questions. “Suffice to say we undead have a few tricks of our own up our sleeves.” He took Rivan by the arm, gesturing them on. “Come, there's a way to go before we reach our destination and I'd like you to have some time there before we have to head back up.” He squeezed Rivan's waist. “If you're good I'll show you some of my other tricks when we get back to the house on the ridge.”
“Always happy to play with your magic box,” Rivan replied with a wink.
Their journey took them on and down, through a network of corridors that for the majority could have accommodated a Drake. Which in some cases they evidently had, judging from the claw marks and ancient soot stains they encountered in places. There was one stretch in particular where a line of figures had been burnt into the wall facing a broad side entrance. Rivan had shuddered as Galairel guided them swiftly on.
At the base of a staircase broad enough to span the plaza before the Alluvial's Eastern Gate they passed out into a vast chamber, its heights so far overhead detail was indeterminate.
Yet he could see it, Rivan realised. Light came from diffuse points suspended throughout, giving off a soft blue radiance. As he looked on more and more of them came on across the space, like stars winking into existence at nightfall. He glanced at the Wraethi, whose smile bore a distinctly prideful edge.
“The Star Way. Inspiration to the Nefiit's council chamber.”
Rivan nodded. “It's...” he shook his head. “And it's survived.”
Galairel shrugged. “We build to last.”
“When you're immortal, I suppose you do.”
Lair set off, descending the final few steps to the chamber floor, where he turned to gesture that Rivan should follow. “We're nearly there.” And he gestured towards a portal that led into one of the huge space's side chambers. Rivan nodded, following him down as the other man set off once more, leading the way across the vast space.
The stone of the chamber floor was a dull green, inset with darker panels in deep blues and blacks. At this scale it was difficult to discern an overarching pattern, though whatever it was involved a lot of long, sweeping curves. Rivan made a mental note to ask his lover on the way back up. There were more of the lights, including a handful scattered across the floor as if flung there by some might hand.
He glanced up to where the Wraethi led the way towards the portal ahead. The floor offered a vague reflection of the room above, so that it seemed they both crossed an ocean that had iced over. Much like the original Ice Lakes that once covered the Arc, Rivan realised, nodding to himself. Even the 'stars' overhead were dimly visible in the translucent surface beneath their feet, though their distance from the floor made it hard to pick them out with any clarity. Their lanterns' reflections, on the other hand, where easily discernible. As were their own mirror images. He peered down at himself, holding his lantern forwards and smiling as his ghostly twin did the same. Almost slipped as he overbalanced. Righting himself, he looked up at his companion. But Galairel marched on oblivious. Rivan smiled as he picked up his pace to catch up once more.
Ahead it was now possible to pick out detail in the lintel of the portal they were approaching. Specifically, damage that had obviously been wrought to its structure. Great chunks of it had been ripped from the surrounding structure. He looked down and about, spotting the corresponding rubble littered about the entrance on the chamber floor. Some of it at a worrying distance from the portal itself. As he studied the floor about him he began to spot further evidence of a struggle. Vast gouges in the false ocean's surface. Sections where an entire run of tiles had been ripped up. And other areas where the floor had taken on an odd glassy quality he realised must have been caused by it melting and solidifying again.
Picking up his pace some more, he made it level with the Efljos as he paused in the doorway. Thus Galairel got to witness his jaw drop at the sight filling the chamber beyond.
Rivan's jaw hung open. Forgotten, until a string of saliva escaped, whilst he took in the sight before him. He had no doubt the rest of his features were arranged in a similarly moronic display but couldn't find it in himself to care. Lair had, after all, seen him in mid-coitus. And he was reliably informed he dealt a pretty wacky hand of sex faces.
The side chamber was no small fry, though obviously it didn't match the grandeur of the frozen ocean at their backs. That décor seemed to have been carried through here; whoever had done the interior designing obviously going for a cohesive look throughout. The main difference here (aside from the slightly smaller scale) was in the amount of damage evident. Clearly a struggle had taken place here, and one of titanic portions at that. A whole quadrant of the roof in one corner had collapsed inward, exposing the raw bedrock behind it, and there were entire sections of the wall run into the floor where they had been liquefied by dragon fire.
The source of that fire dominated the centre of the room.
Rivan glanced at the Wraethi. Galairel nodded silent reassurance, waving him forwards. Swallowing, Rivan crossed the threshold, entering the same space as the slumbering monstrosity before him.
Except that it wasn't sleep. And it wasn't really a dragon. It was as if someone had taken a slumbering dragon and then surrounded it with a hothouse of frosted glass, the overlapping panes echoing the sleeping beast's loosely coiled form. The whole thing looked incorporeal, like one of the effects he'd witnessed Grifarne produce, but he knew from his reading that investigation would reveal a surface solid and unyielding as the stone beneath his feet.
He couldn't quite decide if he had the courage to touch it or not. Settled instead for conducting a slow circuit of the phenomenon, eyes drinking in the detail of colour and light. There was movement, from within, subtle but there. A deep set rhythm like the sleeping respiration that would otherwise be present if the dragon weren't in this state. It produced shifts in the play of light emitting from the vast edifice before him, like the slow spinning patterns of a child's kaleidoscope.
He completed his circuit, ending near what he took to be the Drake's snout. Thus shrouded it was tall as his shoulder, the top sweeping away towards the abrupt upward jag that would be the creature's wings.
Screwing down his resolve, he reached out, pausing at the last minute to look questioningly at the Wraethi.
“Go ahead, that was kind of the idea.”
Nodding, Rivan took a small step forwards, lay his palm flat on the surface before him.
It was warm to the touch, though not hot. Reminded him of the heated floor of the steam room at the baths in Kharpal. And smooth.
Like the skin of the boto, he realised, recalling that dreamy interlude beneath the surface of Kharpal's bay.
Smiling, stepping back, he withdrew to the doorway again, where the Wraethi stood waiting with hands behind his back.
“Phase.” He had to say the word. To taste it in the presence of the actual event. Timo's going to be so jealous...
Uncertain where such an irreverent thought had sprung from, and
feeling slightly guilty for it, he glanced at the man by his side. “So, I'm guessing there's a story here...?”
Galairel nodded, smiling grimly. “Indeed. Come, I'll tell you on the way back up...”
*
Rivan looked up as a hand was laid on his shoulder.
“What...?!”
“No...!”
“Ignore her!”
“Deliana, you spoil sport...”
The object of the crowds derision stuck her tongue out, dodging a poorly aimed cushion before returning her apologetic smile to Rivan.
“I'm sorry to interrupt, but we're ready for you.”
“The rendezvous?”
She nodded. “We've had confirmation from the Run.” She gestured towards the night outside. “Your carriage awaits.”
Rivan nodded, pulling himself to his feet. He smiled lopsidedly at his audience, hands held out before him to forestall further protest. “Story time's over, sorry people. Second instalment to follow next time I'm passing through.”
“We'll hold you to that pretty boy,” warned one of the Nym in the front row.
Rivan grinned at the feisty red head who was one of the most recent additions to the Grove. “Don't worry, I'll be back.” Turning, he gestured to Deliana to lead the way from the commons, marvelling as he went at the civic responsibility that now shaped his life. It dictated almost every move he made,
