by Byron Preiss
The warm color drained from Evirae’s cheeks. Softly, with more pain than anger, she turned away from the children, walking stiffly back to the coach without another word.
Woni called after Evirae in confusion, but Willow’s grandfather put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Sometimes a Princess is a hard person to understand.”
Evirae entered the coach and addressed the driver in a sharp tone. Alora glanced at her. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” she said. “What happened?”
Evirae lifted her chin and stared out the window at Willow and Woni. “They were children,” she said. “I only attempted to overcome their fear of speaking to royalty. According to what they have told me, the Fandoran is already on his way to the palace!”
Tolchin looked alarmed. “We’d best hurry back.”
Evirae nodded. “Yes. Perhaps it would be better if I watched the roads myself.”
* * *
In the highest reaches of the palace, Monarch Ephrion waited for word of Hawkwind’s encounter with the Fandorans. His rooms, on the inner rim of a wide circular hallway, were not far from the small private chamber of Lady Ceria.
Decorated with long pastel tapestries, the corridor wound through the hardened trunk of the palace tree. It was silent, for the hour touched on early morning and the sentries who guarded the upper floors had been called upon to join in the defense of the forest. The task of keeping vigil over the remaining occupants of the palace had fallen to a handful of guards on the lower levels.
It was for this reason that Ephrion rose with concern at the sound of tapping outside his door. Cautiously he opened the door a crack and peered out.
In the muted light of the corridor outside, he saw Lady Ceria struggling past a large beige tapestry in his direction. Even as he opened the door, she put a hand to her head and swayed. Ephrion rushed forward and caught her, supporting the weight of her body with difficulty.
“You should not have risen!” he scolded softly. “Not after what happened to you in the library hall! You have been unconscious for the better part of a day!”
The Minister of the Interior shook her head sleepily and whispered, “A dream—I have had a most disturbing dream. It is urgent that I tell you and Hawkwind about it.”
“Hawkwind has gone to the battlefront,” said Ephrion.
Ceria looked astonished. “He left without summoning me?”
“You were unconscious, my lady.”
Ceria nodded weakly. “We must talk,” she said. Ephrion helped her step inside, nudging the door closed with his shoulder. By the time they crossed the front chamber, Ceria had recovered sufficiently to walk by herself.
As Ephrion escorted her into his study, she gasped at the beauty of the high circular room. It was illuminated by a dozen candles, which threw wavering shadows across the walls and furniture. In one corner was a broad rosewood desk, piled high with books and scrolls. On the floor were ancient maps carefully arranged by location. Candleholders sat upon their curling edges. Pages of notes had been attached by sealing wax to the wall, to make their reading easier.
Ephrion helped her to a large pillow-strewn couch. She sank gratefully into the cushions, “I am sorry for distracting you from your studies,” she whispered, “but I must talk of what I have seen. First, however, tell me—has there been any word from Hawkwind?”
Ephrion sat beside her and shook his head. “None.”
Ceria’s face took on a concerned expression.
“You spoke of a dream,” Ephrion said gently.
“Yes, a dream. A feeling. I know not how to describe it in a way that you would fully understand. Words fall short of the experience.”
Ephrion seated himself in a small brown chair with arms like wings. “There is no question that you experience things in a way I do not, Ceria. It is common to the Rayan. You must share that gift with me now, for the sake of Simbala—for the sake of Hawkwind. Support for Evirae’s challenge has grown. If Hawkwind should survive the confrontation with the Fandorans . . .”
“If he should survive?” exclaimed Ceria. “There can be no doubt!”
Ephrion smiled, “In war, confidence is tempered quickly by the fragile realities of life. Violence breeds violence. I pray for peace, I trust our men, but I can only hope that they all will survive.”
Ceria nodded. “I could not bear the thought of losing him.”
“Then do not think of it now,” answered Ephrion. “Tell me of your dream as best you can.”
Ceria observed a burning candle across the room. “There,” she murmured. “Witness the smoke as it rises from the flame. Such is the substance of my dream.” Her eyes seemed distant, as if fixed on another place and time. “In my dream,” she said slowly, “I was a child again, living in the wagons of my tribe. It was a cold evening, and snowing. I felt an inexplicable fear as I lay beneath my quilt. I rose from my bed to find Zurka, the woman who raised me—but she was gone from her bed. I hurried outside, shivering. The dark woods surrounding the wagons scared me. There seemed to be cold, glowing eyes in their depths. In the moonlight I saw an unfamiliar wagon in our camp. Its door was ajar and I glanced within. On a small velvet cushion there was a smooth and globular jewel. It had the cloudiness of a pearl, but swirled with rainbow colors, as though light were imprisoned within it. It was large—as large as two clasped hands. I felt that it was necessary to see it more closely. But as I reached within and touched it, it burst like a bubble. From it sprang a dragon—tiny at first, but it grew, became gigantic. Its eyes were dark blue, like the night. Its face . . .” Ceria closed her eyes for a moment. “It was sad,” she whispered. “There was such sorrow within it.”
She looked at the elder Monarch. “Ephrion, it did not look like the creature we saw from the palace. That creature had yellow eyes and two legs. This dragon had four. You are familiar with the legends; what meaning do you find in what I have told you?”
Ephrion stood and went to the rosewood desk in silence. Ceria heard the dry rustling of scrolls and texts and waited. Ephrion returned with a small scroll in his hand.
“This,” he said, “is what you saw.”
Ceria sat up and took the scroll from him. “Handle it gently,” he cautioned her. “It is older than the palace.”
To Ceria the paper seemed more delicate than a butterfly’s wing. She looked intently at the faded picture drawn on the parchment. It was exactly what she had seen in her dream—a sphere filled with colors that had long ago faded with the scroll’s age.
“It is one of the legendary stones of the dragons,” Ephrion said. “Perhaps it is even a Dragonpearl. The picture is too faded to tell.”
“Legendary?” asked Ceria. “Then it does not exist?”
Ephrion smiled. “If the legendary dragon exists, might not other legends exist, too?”
“Yes,” said Ceria. “That makes sense. But why do I have no memory of it during my time in Shar Wagon? When I was a child, Zurka told me and my half-sister Balia the legends. I remember the dragons clearly, and what noble, gentle creatures they were. Yet I do not remember anything called a Dragonpearl.”
“Nor did I,” replied Ephrion, “until I examined these ancient writings.” He nodded toward the desk. “They have sat in the palace library untouched for decades. My predecessors believed them to be nothing more than fairy stories and legends. Now, with the dragon’s appearance, I view them differently. I believe that much of what had been thought to be legends is indeed the history of the uncharted northern lands.”
“We must discover if they are true!”
Ephrion nodded and took the scroll from her. Placing it carefully on a small end table, he continued: “The stones of the dragons are repositories of knowledge, Ceria. They grow within the head of a dragon, as a pearl grows. The memories, the history, and the secrets of the dragons are contained within those spheres.”
“What a wondrous thing!” Ceria exclaimed. “If the legends are true, then the dragons’ history can be learned from these stones!�
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Ephrion nodded. “Yes, for each dragon, such a stone exists. Yet, according to the legends, there are only eight Dragonpearls. There is a difference between them. The Dragonpearl is a stone which has grown in the head of a ruler of the dragons. According to legend, there have been eight dragon rulers in the past. By now there may have been more. The stones contain only the memories and feelings of individual dragons, but the eight Dragonpearls contain that, and more—the history and knowledge of the dragons’ civilization. They are repositories of the past, Ceria, and the eight of them are responsive to human thought. Through them we can learn not only the history of the dragons but also the nature of their present existence.”
“How can that be, Monarch Ephrion? Are not the Dragonpearls older than the palace?”
“Yes,” replied Ephrion, “that is true of the eight which we know exist. If there is a head of the dragons now, however, the eight Dragonpearls will not be dormant. Much of their information is linked. Thoughts of the existing head of the dragons could be discovered with any of the Dragonpearls.”
Ephrion looked at the scroll. “We must learn if your dream has any truth to it, Ceria. If it does, the stone must be found and brought here. If it is a Dragonpearl, it may have the information we need to help end this war. There is a reason for the appearance of the dragon—and why it does not appear to be a dragon of legend. The Dragonpearl may tell us; according to legend, it will respond to the thoughts of a human with your gift.”
Ephrion rose again and went to a cabinet near the arched entrance. He poured liquid from a decanter. “You need a revitalizing elixir,” he suggested. “There must be no time lost. You have sensed the danger we face—and you know already how Evirae’s plans have jeopardized Hawkwind’s. You must go to . . .”
Ephrion turned, and left the sentence unfinished, for he saw that Ceria had left the couch and was standing by the desk looking at the maps.
“Do not disturb their order!” he warned.
Ceria smiled. “I won’t. I am merely looking for a map of the Valian Plains. It has been a long time since I journeyed home, and my trip must be as swift as possible.”
She accepted the elixir from Ephrion and raised the glass in a toast.
“To finding the Dragonpearl!” she said.
“To peace,” Ephrion responded quietly.
Ceria nodded, and drained the glass. Then she clutched her red cape about her, and with a respectful gesture of farewell, departed Ephrion’s rooms to make preparations for her journey.
XXV
Sounds of surprise burst forth from the people in the streets near Monarch’s March, as the ebony coach of the Royal Family passed. Atop the driver’s seat was a sight rarely seen by any citizen of Simbala. Next to the driver sat the Princess herself, peering anxiously through the crowds for the sight of a small man with fluffy white hair.
“A dozen men,” she cried, “a dozen I charge with the task of finding the Fandoran, and none succeed!” She tilted her head back and stared at the trees above them. “We must find the Fandoran before he reaches the palace!”
The guard nodded eagerly and cracked a whip, his enthusiasm for the Princess’s plan ensured no doubt by the fact that he was deaf.
In the coach behind him, Baron Tolchin dabbed sweat from his forehead with a small blue foulard. He scowled. “All this time wasted on the Fandoran! We should be dealing with Hawkwind!”
Alora sighed. “I don’t like it. She pursues the Fandoran as if he was the Ruby itself.”
Tolchin nodded. “With reason! You have set him up as an obstacle to the throne!”
“Me?” Alora attempted an air of surprise.
“Do you not remember your own words to her? “ ’Twould be best to find the spy before redecorating the palace!’ ”
Alora shook her head. “I merely meant to show the young woman that too many matters were still unresolved. There is no reason to seek Hawkwind’s removal on such slight evidence as Hawkwind’s disregard for the warning of a spy.”
“Evirae has little interest in the subtlety of your warning, darling. She wishes only to sit in the palace and tell people what to do.”
Alora stroked her forehead, as if to relieve a sudden pain. “I thought you favored Hawkwind’s removal. Now you speak against Evirae?”
“I favor Hawkwind’s removal and the presence of the Royal Family on the throne. The Princess, for all her faults, can be controlled.”
Alora looked reproachfully at her husband. “You do not know Evirae. She will run Simbala as she runs her own life. She will be stubborn and childish. There will be chaos and petty rivalry throughout the land if Evirae replaces Hawkwind.”
Tolchin pulled back the curtain at Alora’s side. “Look around you!” he argued. “The army is at war! The Northweald accuses us of ignoring its demands! The Fandorans wait on the hills near the forest . . . and a dragon has appeared in the courtyard of the palace! Are things so desirable with the miner that you would not risk his replacement by a woman of the Family?
“I do not trust her, Tolchin. There shall be no concession from me unless there is proof of treason.”
“Proof!” Tolchin exclaimed. “If you are as familiar with Evirae as you say, then surely you know she will find proof, if she has to make it herself!”
“Is that the morality that befits a queen?”
“She will be a queen in name only. It is the Family who will govern Simbala.”
* * *
“There goes another,” Amsel said softly. He looked down through the red leaves of a yuana tree at the guard walking below him. It was the fifth he had seen in as many minutes. If he had kept to the ground after escaping the palace guards, he would probably have been recaptured long ago. He wondered if the two men had been able to reach the Princess before him, but he knew also that there was no reason to dwell on it. He simply had to get word through to Hawkwind or the woman called Ceria. He would risk whatever safety he had left to do it.
He had made good time and distance, considering that he was quite exhausted from his trials. For the most part he had been able to proceed in a straight line through the lower canopy across interwoven limbs or hand over hand along vines. Occasionally he would find himself in a tree whose hollow interior contained a house; these often had upper porches and walkways that led across open spaces to more trees.
But closer to the palace grounds the trees were espaliered in uniform rows. More and more he was forced to make precarious leaps across open space, reminding him not only of the danger of the mission but also of his age.
Amsel hurried forward in exhaustion for a few hundred yards more, but the gaps between the trees grew even wider. Although the upper levels of what seemed to be the back of the palace were clearly visible to him now, he realized he would have to reach the structure on foot.
Catching hold of a long, leafless vine, Amsel observed the ground below him. There were small trees, providing some cover in their shadows. There was a small wooden building guarded by two men, both of whom appeared to be asleep. From inside, the sounds of horses could be heard. Amsel suspected that it was a stable. To the west of it was a small stone footbridge. If he could get past the eastern side of the building, he would be able to reach a pathway toward the palace grounds.
Amsel tugged on the vine. It was shiny and relatively smooth. Good, he thought. I will slide down to the lower trees and jump from there.
“It will not be long now, Johan!” he murmured, and with a gulp of air he swung down between the branches.
As he did, he glimpsed a most unexpected sight. A beautiful Simbalese woman, cloaked in red, was rushing quickly up the pathway toward the stable!
“Lady Ceria!” Amsel exclaimed involuntarily, and to his shock, the young woman looked up. She saw what she thought was a child swing precariously from a high tree to a low branch, and then vanish in the long, thin leaves of a silkbough tree. She ran quickly toward it.
In the smaller tree, Amsel swiftly grabbed a branch. He took a deep
breath and pulled the threadlike leaves away from his face. She has seen me, he thought, and she will find me in a moment! He knew not whether to reveal himself or run. The woman could be one of a thousand in Simbala to carry a cloak of red. But they were near the palace, and she had looked up at the mention of . . .
“Come down from there, young fellow!”
Amsel peeked out between the leaves and saw the woman, with hands on hips, staring angrily up at the tree.
“I am in a hurry!” she shouted. “Come down now or I will get you myself!”
Amsel stared at her. From what he could see, the woman fit exactly the description given to him by the child. Using the leaves for a screen, he decided to take a chance. “Are you Lady Ceria?”
The Rayan’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes!” she shouted. “Who are you?”
Amsel smiled. “Success at last!” he murmured. Quickly he climbed down the trunk of the tree.
Ceria saw the tuft of white hair pop out between the lowest branches. The boy’s strange accent and the appearance of a child in this area suddenly made sense. He was not a child at all!
Amsel hit the ground in front of her.
“You are the spy,” said Ceria softly. “Do not move.” In her hand was a small knife.
“No!” Amsel cried. “There has been a grave misunderstanding!”
“Yes,” Ceria replied. “Fandora is at war with Simbala. As we speak, your troops are facing ours in the Kameran Valley. That is a grave misunderstanding for us all.”
Amsel sighed. “Then what I have to say is more urgent than ever! If you are Lady Ceria, you must help me get word to Monarch Hawkwind!”
The Rayan regarded him silently. This was the man the Fandorans had sent to spy on Overwood? The urgency in his voice made her suddenly unsure.
“I must get a message to Hawkwind!” Amsel insisted. “The Princess held me captive in your caverns! I have news that will end the war!”
Ceria lowered her knife and stepped closer to the Fandoran.
