Drakis shook his head quickly. His eyes were locked on the altar. It stood at the bottom of the great curved bowl that formed the central garden of House Timuran, just at the base of the towering crystalline facets of the Aether Well. The Well plunged into the earth below like a dagger, anchoring the entire household with the land on which it rested and connected it with the House Wells around them. Those, in turn, were connected to the Wells of the Houses beyond-in theory-until all the Wells of the Empire connected to the great Well of the Emperor in the heart of Rhonas itself. He glanced above the garden to where the towering avatria-supported by the force of the Aether emanating from the Well-floated just clear of the upper reaches of the subatria’s garden wall. The underside of the avatria was a hemisphere of fitted alabaster carved with intricate patterns of inlaid blue sapphire. It was achingly beautiful and cold as a tomb.
His tomb.
“You can live, if you choose,” the dwarf urged from Drakis’ left. “You can know the truth. . the truth about the elves. . the truth about yourself. .”
Drakis shot the dwarf a withering look and then turned back to face the altar. Timuran was in the ceremonial robes that he wore each night, though he looked far less resplendent than Drakis remembered him in his mind’s eye. He was just finishing his invocation of the Emperor’s Will. Now, with his hands reaching above him-toward the base of the avatria it seemed-he called upon the gods Jolnar and Rhon for their blessings upon his House in bringing to it the power of destiny and victory in battle.
He looked away. Timuran had always been like a father to him-a demanding yet benevolent and wise master. He could barely conceive of the cruelty that he had experienced at his master’s hand, and yet it had happened, and, according to the dwarf, from the evidence on his own back it had happened many times before.
He suddenly realized that he had not actually seen his own back-nor was he likely to do so. All he had was the word of this dwarf who, so far, had been filled only with words. Jugar had made a lot of promises and had not truly delivered yet on a single one. Perhaps, he considered, it was all an elaborate trick by the dwarf.
But the beating the dwarf had predicted had been no trick. His near death had been no trick. And his healing and what happened afterward. .
Drakis glanced at Tsi-Shebin where she stood next to her father. Her black eyes were featureless, and yet he was sure they were staring directly at him. He shuddered again, forcing the memories out of his mind and looking away.
His eyes settled on the members of the household arrayed about the garden for the Devotion. The garden was largely empty, due in no small part to the fact that most of the Centurai were still spread out among the folds between here and the battlefield nearly one hundred and thirty leagues to the north. Nearest to the center of the garden were the elven guild overseers of the Fourth Estate, craftsmen who were in charge of the various divisions within the household. Se’Djinka stood among them, his patched eye giving him a more sinister look than the rest of the overseers. Drakis realized that he must have arrived that same afternoon-had he come to watch the human die? He didn’t remember him being at his audience with Sha-Timuran, but he could easily have not noticed him.
Behind them stood the Fifth Estate elves, the free workers of the household. These primarily included those who served in the avatria-since slaves were not welcome in those confines-but also included a number of Free Guardians, elves who took care of the safety of House Timuran while the Centurai was fighting for its greater honor. Drakis’ practiced eye considered them at a glance: Their stance was practiced ease, but they moved well and touched their sheathed weapons with familiarity. The seasoned warrior in Drakis measured the Guardians as worthy opponents.
There were no Sixth Estate in the Timuran House-a fact that only now bothered Drakis-so the last, arrayed around the edge of the garden, were the lowest of the Seven Estates: the slaves. The household slaves of the subatria stood apart from the warriors of the Centurai. Drakis looked down the rows arrayed to their right and quickly caught sight of a familiar face smiling back at him.
Mala, he thought. How can I tell her what has happened to me? How can I pretend that it did not happen at all?
She must have seen something in his face, for her smile fell at once into an expression of question and concern. He looked away again, focusing once more on the altar and the ritual of the Devotion in its relentless and prescribed cycle of words, gestures, and chanted phrases.
There, arrayed about the altar, were the treasures that he had sent back as their bounty from the war. The pieces of armor that had been so impressive in their original setting now seemed short and comical when placed at the feet of the elves. One of the suits of armor had been carefully arranged to be holding out the black, onyx shard that Jugar had called the Heart of Aer. Here, in the glorious garden of his master, it seemed like a pitiful offering, and it had nearly cost him his life.
How could his entire world have turned so terribly wrong? The dwarf had prophesied it with frightening, fated accuracy-or possibly caused it. And yet all along the dwarf had insisted that Drakis could know the truth of it for himself, that he didn’t have to take the dwarf’s word or believe in anything but himself.
Drakis stared at the altar.
He didn’t want to know the truth.
He wanted to embrace his ignorance.
Drakis wanted to just forget everything that had happened. There was comfort in that, he thought. The memories of what had happened to him over the last few days-of the senseless slaughter of friends and enemy alike, of the horrific violence done just to capture a crown of a kingdom that had already been conquered, not to even consider the violence done to both his body and his spirit that very afternoon-all these things had caused him to wonder how he could possibly ever sleep again, let alone face Mala. That the altar might offer him blissful forgetfulness of all of that was deeply alluring to him. He knew he could not live with the truth of his memories-so perhaps it was better to live a lie without them.
Lord Timuran had finished his Devotions as had his family. The overseers were passing the altar now, each in turn kneeling and making their Devotion as Timuran looked on. Those who were finished moved up the carefully manicured path out of the bowl of the garden and waited patiently for the rest of the household to join them.
“Drakis,” the dwarf muttered behind him. “All our lives are in your hands! You don’t have to be a slave. . you can be free! You can know the truth. .”
“I don’t want to know the truth,” Drakis said with a shuddering breath. He turned with Belag as the Centurai was preparing to take its turn at the Devotions. “I want to forget the truth.”
“Forget the truth?!” the dwarf sputtered. They began moving forward, slowly. The Free Guardians had already finished their Devotions. The slaves of the subatria were approaching the altar. “I cannot believe I’m hearing this! You, of all humans, giving up your future. . your great destiny. . just to save yourself a little pain?”
Drakis snorted. He looked again to the altar. Mala was kneeling, her bald head bowing down before the altar as her hands pressed down into its surface. A little pain? he thought. You have no idea how much pain I’m giving up.
The dwarf had followed his gaze. “Ah, yes, and what about that girl of yours?”
He watched as Mala walked up the path to join the other House slaves waiting at the base of the garden wall. She turned and her eyes met his.
She looked back at him without expression.
“What or who will they make her forget?” Jugar urged, a vicious edge to his voice. “You could die tomorrow, Drakis, and she would never remember that you existed let alone that you. .”
“SHUT UP!” Drakis shouted, wheeling suddenly on the dwarf. In an instant, he grasped the dwarf by his tunic with his left hand, slamming his right fist into Jugar’s face.
From behind a nose that was bleeding and most probably broken, Jugar smiled.
Drakis looked up. The entire assembly was staring
at him in shocked astonishment. Sha-Timuran raised his head slightly and frowned.
Drakis released his grip on the dwarf, his breathing coming heavily. He turned from his astonished comrades and stepped to his right toward the delicately arched opening leading back toward the chakrilya and the Warrior pens beyond. Even as he did, however, a tall elven Guardian stepped in front of him.
“You are disturbing the Devotions,” the Guardian said in a reedy voice. “Calm yourself and return to your place.”
“I. . I’m not well,” Drakis replied. It was true enough; he felt overwhelmingly nauseated. “I just. . I just need a few minutes. . I just need to breathe. .”
The Guardian reached down, his hand fingering the grip on his sheathed sword. “You will feel better after your Devotions, slave. Just return to your place and everything will be better soon.”
“Please. . just give me a few minutes,” Drakis hissed through clenched teeth. He could see the chakrilya beyond the Guardian, its anonymous space and emptiness inviting to his eyes and beckoning him. “I’ll be right back. . I can’t. . I just need to breathe. .”
“Do as you’re told and everything will be right again.” The Guardian said forcefully, gripping the human’s arm.
“NO!” Drakis shouted. Training overcame thought as the Impress Warrior suddenly stepped into the Guardian, forcing the elf to release his grip. He reached for the handle of the sword, but the elf was too quick, clasping his own hand over the human’s and keeping the blade firmly sheathed in the scabbard.
A gasp rushed through the crowd of servants. Belag, Thuri, and Ethis all remained in their places, astonished at the sight of their Centurai commander striking one of their elven masters and uncertain as to what to do.
The elves, however, reacted quickly and surely. Guardians from around the room converged on the disturbance. One of them gripped Drakis from behind, pulling him away from the first Guardian while a third immediately reached to restrain his left arm.
Drakis would not relent. He flailed with his free arm, kicking as they tried to drag him down the path toward the altar. He kept yelling throughout. “Let me go! I just need a moment. . I don’t want to hurt anyone. . just let me go!”
Several more Guardians were rushing in his direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Sha-Timuran striding up the path toward him, a grim smile fixed on his face as he drew the long, curving blade from its sheath.
Unnoticed in the spectacle unfolding at the base of the subatria wall, Jugar the Jester slipped between the bushes of the garden.
No eyes witnessed him deftly remove the armored glove from the dwarven armor or, having donned it, use it to remove the Heart of Aer from where it was displayed.
Only Se’Djinka, embroiled in subduing the berserk Drakis saw the danger as the dwarf leaped up onto the altar, but he was too late.
The dwarf swung the Heart of Aer with all his strength. It struck against the crystalline structure of the House Aether Well with the precision that only a dwarf, knowing minerals, could achieve. The interior lattice of the Well fractured in an instant, the power of the Aether contained by it released a moment later. The Aether Well exploded into a million shards.
In that instant, every slave of House Timuran. . from the lowest scullery maid to the most fearless gladiator. . suddenly and horribly REMEMBERED.
CHAPTER 14
The Fall
Drakis could not stop screaming.
The garden of Timuran spun uncontrollably down into madness as each slave reacted at once to the flood of suppressed memories surging raw and unbidden into their conscious minds. A sudden, terrifying discord of anguished shrieks filled the air, an agonized chorus of despair and pain. In panic, most of the slaves bolted from their ordered ranks, running blindly about the garden chased by the ghosts of their own remembrance.
Drakis noticed none of this. He arched his back so hard that the Guardian Elves nearly dropped him from their iron grip. The sound continued from his gaping mouth, animalistic and unbidden. His eyes were wide, focused not on the elven Guardians or their rising panic and uncertainty but on visions from his own past suddenly confronting him like phantoms escaping from the prison of his thoughts.
Mother. . first mother, real mother. . stories of father and the Time Before. . running with mother and brother. . brother! Recaptured and enslaved. .
Outrage and fear surged through him, blasting strength again into his muscles. He snatched his right arm free and began flailing blindly about.
Mother dead in the wars. . her body never returned. . New mother and new father. . false family remembered. . brother. . where is my brother?
The Guardians released him, their hands reaching at once for their weapons. Drakis fell heavily to the floor.
Beaten. . sold. . beaten. . sold. . no lesson taught in each beating, the point being not to teach him but for the sheer joy of inflicting pain and humiliation on the human boy. . sold again to Sha-Timuran because the elf girl was spoiled by her father and thought the human boy was pretty and Sha-Timuran could use another warrior. .
He rolled over, kneeling on the ground, curling tighter into a ball.
Tenicia. . his first betrothal. . his first wife. . he had forgotten her. . he had forgotten so many. .
The sound of blades crashing together cut through his avalanche of thoughts, replacing them with the single, clear voice of the dead ChuKang come back to him.
“To stand still on a field of battle is to invite death to find you.”
Drakis pushed himself up, leaping to his feet, and closing at once with the nearest of the elven Guardians. Instinct and training took over, pushing the maddening thoughts to the side as he concentrated on the moment before him and the enemy that he barely recognized as one of his own household. He gave himself to his instincts, not wanting to think or consider the consequences of his attack. He blocked the elf’s frantic blow, arrested his sword arm, and, in a single, fluid move, wrested the blade from the horrified elf’s grasp.
Drakis swung the blade, rotating the grip with his wrist. The elf backed up, baring his teeth beneath his blank, black eyes.
Drakis did not hesitate. He feigned a blow to the right and then, with lightning skill, curled the blade over his head and sliced it into his opponent on the left. He drew the blade back and then thrust it forward, burying it deep into the elf’s gut and then turning it with a violent rotation of both hands on the hilt.
Blood gushed over his hands from the gaping wound, but Drakis maintained his grip on the hilt, jerking it free and reeling backward slightly from the effort.
It saved his life. A blade flashed downward in front of his face. He stepped back on his right foot, planting it for balance as he raised his own blade to deflect the downward cut away from him. He spun to confront his next attacker.
Don’t think. . just survive.
He locked his eyes with those of a taller Guardian for a moment, but it was enough. A massive fist, its fur already caked with blood connected with the elf’s head from the left, driving it with such force into the garden wall next to them that Drakis heard the skull crack over the screaming chorus around them.
“Help me!” roared Belag. “Help me!”
Drakis turned to look at Belag. His golden eyes were fixed open, darting suddenly here and there. The human saw something he had never seen in any manticore before: fear filled the flat feline features of his countenance. He reached out with his bloodied, huge hand, feeling toward Drakis as though he could not see him.
A terrible sound, like a thunder that would never end, surged down around them. Drakis looked up.
The avatria was falling. Bereft of the power of the Aether Well, the elegant floating home of the Timurans first leaned to one side and then dropped straight down, smashing down onto the tall garden wall of the subatria with crushing force. Hundreds of alabaster tiles crashed down into the garden from the hemispherical underside of the structure, knocking many of the terrified household members to the ground.
Several of the braziers lighting the garden fell over, their coals igniting a fire. Drakis watched in amazement as several subatria slaves, cackling as they danced, began pouring oil from amphorae on the fire, causing it to erupt robustly, its smoke obscuring the scene. As Drakis watched, an enormous crack opened up along the curved foundation that threatened to collapse the entire structure on them at any moment.
Training and instinct. Training and instinct.
The human grabbed Belag’s forearm.
“Gather the Warriors,” Drakis heard himself say, although his own voice sounded detached from him-a thing apart. “Tell those who can to meet outside at the totem hilltop southwest of the House. .”
“Outside!” Panic rose in the manticore’s voice. “We’ve no permission to. .”
“Belag! I am Master of the Centurai now,” Drakis shouted, his face pressed close, filling the vision of the manticore. In the back of his mind he knew how utterly ridiculous his words were. There were no masters any more. . no Centurai. “Get any warriors you can and meet me outside. . west of the Warrior Gate at the hilltop totem!”
Overhead, an overwhelming cracking sound shook the hall. Drakis glanced up fearfully. The amount of debris from the collapsing avatria above them was increasing at an alarming rate.
“Belag!” Drakis shouted. “Obey!”
The manticore’s eye slits suddenly narrowed into focus. “Aye!”
Drakis glanced around as the huge lion-man turned and bolted off to his right. The garden was barely recognizable. Flames shot up from several large fires, their flickering light illuminating the shattered base of the avatria that threatened imminent collapse. Silhouetted or illuminated, everywhere there seemed to be figures moving through the haze of the smoke.
A single name came to him.
“Mala,” he murmured.
He felt panic rise within him again. She had been on the other side of the garden watching him just moments ago.
Song of the Dragon aod-1 Page 12
