Isle of Wysteria: Throne of Chains

by Aaron Lee Yeager

  Margaret waved her hand, and the winds picked up from the west, crabbing the ship sideways to avoid a jagged crag. “It wasn’t this place that nullified our powers before, it was the dragons themselves. If our powers work, wouldn’t that mean…?”

  Athel slammed her fist against the gunwale. “No, they have to be here, they just have to…”

  She picked up her hand, amber blood dripping free. “They just have to…it’s our only chance.”

  Alder took out his handkerchief and tended to her wound.

  Captain Evere turned to Andolf. “Old man, can your spirits see anything?”

  Andolf closed his eyes, his purple whiskers rustling in the breeze. “There are no spirits here. The place is barren.”

  Margaret adjusted her glasses. “There, to the west, there’s a spot where the wind doesn’t speak.”

  “Hard to port, bring us about!”

  As the Dreadnaught neared the center of the island, the mists began to clear. Here, they found the heart of the dragon’s realm. Warm cascading pools of clear water, fields of smooth volcanic sand, pillars of polished stone like glass, perches placed atop. And at the center, something that no one had seen since the creation of Aetria.

  A river of light, flowing down from the heavens, like a golden brook made of pure luminescence. It seemed to stretch out forever, reaching past the curvature of the world and beyond, to the very stars themselves. Where the air and ground met the river, they shimmered and rippled, as if they were made of water. At the very edge of vision, the head of the river flowed from a great fountain, amid golden fields and silver clouds. A land lay at the far side, a place where emotion and thought were as tangible as water and earth.

  “What is that?” Ryin asked aloud.

  “It must be Amun-set-allaht,” Albashire said reverently. “The pathway that leads to the spirit world.”

  At the base of the river, a small group of dragons stood, their multi-colored soul-fire seeping out between the gaps in their massive armored scales.

  Margaret’s hold began slipping, and the ship began to slow.

  “Set us down,” Evere ordered into the call tubes.

  The dragons were humming deeply, lost in meditation as the crew disembarked. Their mighty heads swayed from side to side, the fume from their fires hissing free, like eyebrows and mustaches.

  It was like a song. Slow and mournful, profound and heartfelt. A wake, a wailing regret, a funeral dirge, voiced through fire. It made all who heard it feel regret.

  A broad dragon with scales like diamonds left the group and waded into the waters. As he did so, his body melted into the light, became one with it, his glowing essence swimming upstream as a shining current through the cascading blaze, traveling off through the stars towards the fountain beyond.

  The crew slowed as they drew near, the dragons continuing their sad song.

  “I don’t understand,” Athel said, looking them over. “What’s happening?”

  “They’re leaving,” Mandi realized.

  “What?”

  “They’re leaving Aetria. Forever.”

  Everyone looked at one another in concern.

  The next dragon with bright ruby scales waded into the water and dissolved away into the stream.

  Athel ran forward. “Great dragons, please wait…!”

  There was a flash of light, and a tendril of the river whipped out at her, striking her hand.

  Athel fell back, her hand momentarily becoming fuzzy, before reforming.

  “What the…”

  “You must not approach the great river,” came a deep powerful voice.

  The young dragon with sapphire scales ceased his singing and interposed himself. “You are but a fragment of something greater, a temporary imitation of true life. An amusing toy for your gods to play with. Back away or you will all be destroyed by the great river!”

  Alder helped Athel to her feet, and they all retreated a few paces.

  Athel reached out her hand. “Vah’Mnemn, please stop. I am Athel of Wysteria, I am known to you. We came here because we need your help.”

  Ihne’aku, king of the dragons, paused his chanting and turned to them, flexing his creamy scales like pearls. So large was he, they were like bugs before him.

  “My kind are leaving this world.”

  “But…why?”

  “We can no longer find peace here. We plan to travel far afield, so far that your meddling gods will never find us again. There, we will make a new world for ourselves, and finally find peace.”

  Athel gasped. The sting of failure welled up in her heart again.

  “So…what?” she yelled out, her voice cracking. “You’re just going to abandon our world to die?”

  “Our world?” Vah’Mnemn spat, his fiery spittle burning a hole in the ground where it landed, forcing those nearby to withdraw.

  “This world doesn’t belong to you!” he roared. “It never did. We made this place for our own purposes. All of you are…a disease, a plague that has infected what we created, and you’ve spread so far this world is now beyond saving.”

  Gloom fell over the crew. This was their only hope. Their last hope.

  Margaret stepped forward. “But what will happen to us?”

  Vah’Mnemn rushed forward, startlingly fast for something his size, his snout just inches from her face. “Your kind were made to destroy,” he hissed. “It would appear you are about to fulfill the purpose of your creation. This world will be destroyed, along with every mortal on it.”

  Margaret gasped as she stepped back. “You mean it’s true?”

  “Of course it’s true,” the great beast roared, poking her with his claw. “The sole reason Nehirana made your people, the people of Stretis, was to be a weapon. To hunt the children of Valpurgeiss and fight wars on Nehirana’s behalf. That is the entire purpose of your existence. The same is true for all mortals.”

  Margaret fell to her haunches, mortified.

  The great sapphire dragon entered the river of light and became one with it as he swam away.

  Igne’aku was more diplomatic. “I know of your troubles, mortals,” he said, the fumes from his prismatic fire hanging down like a great beard. “But we cannot help you. The decision has already been made. Soon the river will dry up, and this place will be cut off. If we stay, we perish along with you.”

  He stepped down into the water.

  Molly looked on, worried that everyone was sad. She reached up and tugged on Mandi’s sleeve. “What does this mean?”

  Mandi picked her up and hugged her over one shoulder. “It means we’ve lost.”

  Athel clenched her fists and stepped forward, her red hair caught in the breeze. “Great Igne’aku. Did we abandon you, when you needed us?!” she shouted.

  The mighty dragons paused.

  Athel stepped closer. “When your kind were captured and tied like animals, when the Stone Council was skinning your brethren alive, when the dragon race stood on the very brink of extinction, did we just stand by and let it happen?”

  He closed his fiery eyes. “No, you did not.”

  “You once called me dragon-friend. Did you mean it, or does the word of dragons mean nothing?”

  The three remaining dragons looked at one another sadly.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered, shame in his voice. “We cannot help you.”

  He melted away into the water.

  The remaining two dragons did the same, and then they were gone.

  The light of the river faded away as if it had never existed, leaving the frightened crew alone in the mist.

  Athel fell to her knees.

  “No…”

  Chapter Nine

  Where am I?

  Spirea found herself standing in an etheric plane, clouds swirling around her, as if in worship, the stars bowing befo
re her, the mountains prostrated.

  The ground beneath her split like a wound, and a great tower lifted her up beyond the veil of the sky. She looked over the world of Aetria, sitting beneath her like a cowering animal. Everywhere there were voices, screaming wails and pleas for mercy.

  The screams of her victims.

  What is happening?

  At the base of the tower, all the gods of Aetria gathered, their peoples behind them, like the spokes of a great wheel. The sun above went dark, followed by the moon. The darkness laughed.

  Black fire erupted from the tower, streaking out into the night and connecting with the constellations, drawing them in, as if sucking their light away with a straw. The heavens died, and no more light was to be found there.

  Milia’s floating hair went limp, her divine light went out, and her body collapsed to the ground, shattering into dust and bones. Her people crumbled apart as if they were made out of clay.

  No!

  Quetah’s fiery mane extinguished, and he blew away as if made of ash. His people fell dead to the earth.

  What’s happening?

  Spirea looked down. The cuttings in her flesh were glowing again, like the day she was prepared as a vessel for the dirigina. The souls of the fallen rose up, screaming and clawing in terror as they were drawn towards her.

  Spirea put up her hands to stop them, but they soaked into her, consumed by the hunger and thirst within her.

  Stop it!

  Odesi and Vestum fell next, their people evaporating into mist.

  You’ve got to run away from me!

  Kohta and Rendas aged away to bones, then even their bones disintegrated. Their people fell lifeless into coffins prepared for each of them.

  Save yourselves!

  One by one, the gods and peoples of Aetria died and were consumed, and her cursed body drank deep of their souls. Each time, Spirea grew larger, until the enormous tower was nothing more than a pin sticking out from the side of a green and blue sphere she held in her hand.

  Spirea’s hand became clawed and began to close.

  She yanked against it. She cursed and pulled, grabbing her wrist with her other hand and screaming with all her might, but her claws closed, shattering the world to pieces.

  All the light went out, and she was alone in darkness. Complete silence, save for the ticking of clocks, and the clacking of teeth.

  Is this her…plan?

  Spirea stirred to the sounds of clicking and clacking. Her eyes shot open, the morning light falling on her face as Tigera worked frantically on her necklace above her.

  “Wha…what are you?”

  “Shhh, lie still,” he commanded, sweat dripping down his face.

  She glanced around. There were the remnants of at least a dozen necklaces on the bed around them, each one cannibalized for components.

  “You…stayed?”

  “Against my better judgment,” he commented, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I’ve been working through the night. I can’t promise this will work, but it may give us a few more days.”

  Spirea looked out the window at the rising sun. “You need to leave. She’ll kill you. She’s already starting to suspect that you…”

  “I know.”

  Tigera recited the final incantation and the necklace fused together, channels of light crossing over the bone like etched flame.

  Spirea could only stare at him, her eyes swimming.

  There was a clack and a puff of smoke.

  “There,” he exclaimed proudly. “That’s done it.”

  Spirea felt something dark stir inside of her.

  “She’s waking up,” she shrieked.

  “It’s all right,” he said, a trio of birds flying in to help him gather up the pieces everywhere.

  “She’s waking up! She’ll burn me!”

  “Just be still. It will be fine,” he said, throwing the pieces into his satchel.

  “No it won’t. We have to kill me now, or else she’ll…”

  She reached for his belt and removed his dagger from its sheath. She raised it before her, but he caught her hand.

  “No, we can’t let her,” Spirea yelled. “You don’t understand. She’ll kill everyone! The whole world!”

  Tigera forced her down on the bed, covering her mouth with his hand. “I will not kill you. I’m going to find a way to free you.”

  Her eyes quivered. “But…why?”

  Tigera opened his mouth, but could not make himself say it. Instead he said, “I will save you.” Then, he added something he had never meant once in his entire life until that moment. “I swear it.”

  Fear was in her eyes, but she obeyed him. Slowly she released her grip on the knife. “All right.”

  He took the blade from her hand, and looked deeply into her eyes.

  Spirea’s body began shaking, as if something were throwing her around from within. Veins of silver began swirling through her eyes. Her limbs kicked and flopped grotesquely, as if she were some manhandled puppet. Her head arched back and she screamed, her black hair shifting to white.

  The scream gradually shifted in timber and pitch, becoming a long luxurious moan.

  The Queen sat up, stretching as if from a long restful sleep.

  When she opened her eyes dreamily, the soul that looked back out from them was cruel, calculating, and infinitely cold. “Good morning,” she said, the words containing only a greasy residue of sweetness.

  “Good morning, my Queen,” he said, bowing properly as she preferred him to.

  She looked out the window, pleased at the progress that was occurring with the tower construction. “I find myself in an agreeable mood. You will join me for a ride, and then you will stay by my side for the remainder of the day.”

  “As you wish.”

  The Queen lowered the void barrier around her bed and made her way over to her oversized vanity, where she unstopped her dragon flask, and began hungrily drinking down a huge dose of black shakes.

  Tigera could not watch. He looked away as the Queen guzzled down the foul tar, knowing what it was doing to the real Spirea inside of her.

  Queen Sotol coughed painfully, then dropped the flask, catching the edge of the desk to steady herself. Her body tried to wretch up the poison, but she clamped her hand over her mouth, forcing it back down. Her youthful skin visibly aged as the vile potion soaked into every cell.

  Tigera watched from the corner of his eye as the necklace around her neck steamed and strained, a faint line cracking along a tooth.

  “Come, I wish you to bathe me,” she commanded with dry satisfaction as she walked over to the marble showering room.

  Tigera glanced over to the open window. It was still there, open and inviting. All he had to do was jump out, climb down to his waiting stallion, and ride for the docks. It would be so easy.

  Carefully, he closed the window and latched it shut.

  What am I doing? This is crazy. I should escape...

  He turned around and followed the Queen out of the room.

  When the Queen opened her chamber doors, she found Marc and Jennat standing there, their faces white as snow.

  “What is it?”

  The Kabalists looked at one another, afraid to speak.

  “Spit it out!”

  Marc swallowed, his feathers pinching. “Number Two, we have a big problem.”

  * * *

  The High Priestess lay in her bed, her scorched skin slick with a high fever.

  Carefully, Orlaya Oleander emptied the last of her water onto a cloth, and placed it on her mother’s brow.

  The old woman stirred in delirium. “Delphinium!” she called out. “Daughter, is that you?”

  Orlaya placed her blistered hand on her mother’s cheek. “She’s not here, Mami. Try to rest.”

  The co
olness on her brow helped her settle into a cramped stillness.

  When her breathing became low and steady, Orlaya wiped her cheek and came out into the lobby, where a large group of young matrons waited for her.

  “Thank you all for coming.”

  They all nodded.

  “I…uh, don’t really have anything to offer you,” she fussed, rummaging through a drawer. “I may still have some tea leaves…I’ve been reusing the same ones since I can’t grow any…”

  Iris Bursage reached out and steadied her hands. “It’s all right, Orlaya. You don’t need to stand on ceremony with us.”

  The others nodded.

  Orlaya thanked them. “Sorry, I’ve just…ah, I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “None of us have,” Barberry admitted. “I don’t know how to run a household, or be a leader, yet I find myself now in charge of a huge household with a long and heavy tradition.”

  Her admission seemed to reduce the tension in the room.

  “Traditions so long we keep tripping over them,” Escallonia Peony observed, picking at her cracked lips.

  “I feel the same way,” Rockrose Teak added, pushing a strand of oily hair away from her dirty face. “My sister was next in line. She got all the training and instruction, but now that she’s gone…”

  They grew quiet. There was not a one among them who had not lost someone dear.

  Orlaya took heart. “All right, so let’s drop the airs we’re expected to project. We all admit we don’t know what we’re doing, do you concur?”

  There was scattered agreement.

  Orlaya looked back at her mother, stirring in her bed. “Having said that, let’s focus on what we can do.”

  They looked at each other, a little daunted.

  “She’s right,” Currant Aster said, pounding a muddy fist into her palm. “The Royal Tree has refused to permit a new queen to be crowned. Like it or not, at the moment we are the de facto leaders of Wysteria. The others will look to us for a decision.”

  “So, what is our decision?” a voice asked from the back.

  All the others turned to her, unsure.

  Calla Forsythia looked back at them. The fire was gone from her green eyes. Her clothes were coarse, her red hair tangled with roots and twigs. She looked as tired and desperate as they all felt. “I spent years pining to lead,” she began, “ever since my stupid cousins were born and took me out of line for the throne…”