The Stone of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  He had them all so well trained by now that they responded at once to the signal, scattering for cover like so many mice at the approach of a hawk. Ailia sprang to her feet, her heart lurching in her breast. The flying creature was descending with great speed, its shape now distinctly serpentine against the sky, undulating upon the air as its giant wings rose and fell. Realizing in panic that the roofless ruin offered her no shelter, she fled into the paved street. As she ran there came a noise from the sky like a succession of thunderclaps. She dared not look up, but she saw a darkness pass swiftly over the ground beneath her running feet, like the shadow of a cloud. Giant shadow-wings stretched from one side of the street to the other, and the dark outline of a long body—

  “Ailia!” A hand seized her by the arm and yanked her inside a nearby building; she found herself staring up at Damion’s blanched face. He did not look at her, but stared wide-eyed out the nearest window. She looked out the empty frame too, and saw the huge shadow sweep on down the street, together with a wind that set dust devils whirling up from the pavement. The thunderous wing-claps grew louder, then faded once more. She crept up to the casement and peered out.

  And there was the dragon, winging away over the rooftops. The body of the beast was russet-colored above and golden beneath, the sunlight glancing off its scales as though off burnished metal. The four great limbs were drawn up against its underside with the claw-tips dangling, and she saw the horned head turning this way and that, as an eagle’s does when it scans the ground for prey. Then the dragon dipped one wing and banked, and she saw the sharp dorsal scales, like a row of spearheads all along its spine; and the flat scales flanking them were not russet but red as blood, or roses, or rubies. She could see the webwork of veins in the giant crimson wings as the sun shone through them, standing out against the pellucid membranes like the veins of a leaf.

  There were other dragons too, higher up—a dozen or so sinuous red-golden shapes had dropped out of the clouds above the mountains. For all their great bulk, they glided as effortlessly as swallows. The first dragon made one more pass over the city, and then rose to meet the others, his wings snapping like banners in a wind as they beat against the air. He was larger than the other dragons, and appeared to hold a dominant position among them, for as he climbed skyward they all turned and followed him. Ailia and Damion watched in breathless silence as the huge creatures swept low over the western peak in a tight arrow-formation, their great shadows flitting over the stark rock-faces. Then they flew on toward a neighboring mountain, plunging in and out of the trailing vapors that hung about its summit, stretching out their webbed wings to catch the updrafts rising before the sheer cliffs. How terrible, and yet how wonderful, to see these sky-gods at sport in their realm of air and stone!

  “They’re beautiful!” Ailia gasped.

  Damion looked down at her in surprise. “I thought you were afraid of them,” he said.

  “Oh, I am!” she replied, in tones of ecstasy.

  Damion leaned as far as he dared out the doorway. No wonder the Anthropophagi worshipped dragons. How terrible they were, beyond the terrors of all the rest of the animal kingdom, and yet—how magnificent, how graceful! The lead dragon in particular commanded his attention: he found himself thinking of a wolf leading a pack, a lion at the head of its pride. For sheer arrogant majesty they could not equal this creature, its air of owning the very sky through which it flew.

  The Dragon King . . .

  The dragons had ceased their play and were rising higher into the sky. In a few moments they passed above a shoal of thin fine cloud, becoming a phalanx of veiled shadows; then they disappeared altogether behind a dense mass of cumulus. Some time passed before they reemerged some distance away, now only a gleam of sun-reflecting scales in the blue.

  Jomar gave the all-clear from his own hiding place and they ran out into the street, staring skyward and exclaiming.

  “Did you see the big one? Did you see how close it came?” cried Lorelyn.

  “Yes—what a monster!” Damion said, trying to sound cheerful. “I wonder if it’s the same dragon that attacked us on the mountainside? It looked about the same size to me.”

  Ailia was silent, rubbing her hands together: the windowsill had left a deep imprint on each palm where she had clutched at it in her excitement. She could not find any words for the feeling that the dragons had given her: she was relieved that they were gone, and yet the memory of them held in it something close to elation.

  “Perhaps Mandrake was right about leaving this place,” said Damion, shaking his head. “It’s much too dangerous.”

  “We can’t give up now,” protested Lorelyn. “We can’t let the Zimbourans find the Stone.”

  “We won’t.” Jomar looked soberly at the rest of them. “But from now on we had better do our searching with one eye on the sky.”

  THE LONG DAY PASSED; the circling shadows followed the sun back toward its resting place. Presently Damion walked apart from the others, going over to the southern wall of the fortifications, where he stood at the arched entrance, looking out on the panoramic view of mountains and river valley and the ocean beyond, a few icebergs showing as minute white flecks against the blue expanse.

  Mandrake was right: they were wasting their time here. It was mere foolishness to search for a gemstone that was probably long gone, or had possibly never even existed outside of legend. Their true priority was Lorelyn’s safety. The Zimbourans persisted in believing that she was the Tryna Lia—or at least their mad king did: they would do all they could to recapture her. They dared not fail in this task, with their king right here in Trynisia with them. Some stone or other would be found by them—a white pebble, a shard of innocuous quartz—and presented to Khalazar as the fabled gem, along with the hapless girl. Then Lorelyn would die on the God-king’s sword, before his watching and worshipping soldiers. And her death would only be the first in a tide of blood and savagery that would sweep the whole world.

  He walked a little way down the hill and stood looking from one end of the island to the other. The hopelessness of the situation was inarguable. They could not escape, and they would run out of hiding places here eventually. Had he been alone, he thought, he would have given in long ago. But with the women here, and also Jomar, who still had not had his chance, despair was an indulgence Damion could not permit himself. Instead his mind ran over scheme after desperate scheme. Would it be possible to build a makeshift raft or boat? What of Eldimia—was it a real land? A place “beyond the world’s end”—that was likely a poetic way of saying it was very far away from any other landmass. It was a depressing thought. Maurainia would be preferable, but how to get back there? Mandrake must have a vessel of his own hidden away somewhere, but while he claimed to be concerned about Lorelyn’s welfare, could he really be trusted? Jomar had a low opinion of the man, and Damion too felt uneasy about relying on him.

  He sat down on a flat-topped rock beside the path. A sweet scent came to him on the breeze, and he turned to see another little gnarled tree-of-heaven growing in a crack between stones. He reached out and touched one of its fruits. Was it true, what Ailia said—could the juice of these fruits really grant visions on demand? Had the sibyls used it for that purpose? What if he were to try one—would it grant him a glimpse of their future, give him some idea of what lay in store for them all? Jomar had dismissed the idea; Mandrake said it was too dangerous. But Mandrake’s word could not be trusted on everything, and Damion was desperate enough now to try anything at all. In fact, the little golden fruit was in his hand already: it had dropped from its stem, ripe and heavy, at his touch, and lay now in his cupped palm, as though inviting him to give in to his desire—to taste it, to see for himself . . . He split the fruit’s skin his nails: it was succulent as a nectarine, bursting with a honey-colored juice that runneled down his fingers. He hesitated, then held them to his lips and licked away the moisture with the tip of his tongue. A sweet taste filled his mouth, piquant as a wild berry plucked in a su
n-warmed meadow, and with it a sudden drowsiness came over him. He slumped down, propped against the side of the boulder.

  WHEN HE CAME TO HIMSELF again it was to find that the sun had set.

  The sky was darker than he had yet seen it here, blue-black and glittering with stars. The moon shone too: but it was no longer a waxing crescent. It shone now at the full. And it was not the moon he knew: the bright silver disc bore broad greenish patches, like tarnish, and was overlaid with many curious marblings and mottlings of white. And above it there were comets, dozens of them scoring the sky, trailing their blazing trains across its black vault. Some were huge as the Great Comet, some smaller, more distant perhaps. Never had he seen anything so beautiful, and so terrifying, as that sky.

  He sprang to his feet. The mountainside below him was covered in a fresh fall of snow, yet he felt no breath of cold. As he gazed in bewilderment at the white slope he saw a man on horseback coming up it toward him. Already he was scarcely a bow’s shot away. The rider was clad in jet-black armor and a helmet of strange design, the visor in the form of a man’s face, with sculpted steel features and gaping holes for the eyes. The protective chamfron that masked his horse was shaped like a dragon’s horned head. The knight spurred his steed straight at Damion, as if he intended to run him down. The priest leaped to one side and the horse galloped on past him, but its rider did not rein it in and turn again to the attack. He simply rode on, up the path toward the entrance of the city.

  As Damion turned to watch, he saw that the cracked and crumbling turreted wall had somehow been miraculously restored. Faced now with fine marble, it gleamed before him in the strange moon’s light. Staring, he too mounted the path to the gate. And walked through into the streets of Liamar.

  The ruins had gone. All around him reared tall buildings of white marble. Beyond the snow-whitened rooftops swelled the great dome of the temple, undamaged now, showing gold between patches of snow. The pavements thronged with people, all clad in loose robelike garments and fur-trimmed cloaks, and the air was filled with a hive-thrum of activity. He was reminded of his last days on Jana. These people were fleeing the city—not in a panic, yet, but leaving as quickly as they could. There was a blast like a trumpet’s behind him, loud and clear, making him start and whirl: he gaped at a huge lumbering shape approaching from the far end of the street. Its long serpentine trunk wove to and fro, giving off more trumpet-blasts, and the big rounded ears flapped like wings. The creature was covered in a thick pelt of brown fur. It was a woolly elephant, like those that roamed northern Shurkana. He had been told the creatures were untamable, yet this one had a mahout in fine livery straddling its neck, one hand resting on the shaggy domed head; and atop the sloping back was a crimson-curtained howdah of curious design. The giant beast strode past, the light of the strange stone lamps gleaming on its mighty tusks that did not jut downward like a common elephant’s, but curved up in the shape of drawn bows. Damion craned his neck, peering up at the curtains of the howdah, but he could catch no glimpse of the interior and its occupants.

  But he could see the people in the street, and at some of them he stared in wonder. For the first time, a man of his generation looked upon the Elei in all their glory. Damion’s heart ached at the sight of them. It was not so much that they looked inhuman: rather, theirs seemed to him the true humanity, of which all others seemed but a poor and shabby imitation. They appeared to belong to no one race, their skin color ranging from porcelain-white to bronze, but they had, in addition to their unusual height, a perfection of proportion, a delicacy of feature seldom seen except in idealized statues. The stone images they had left behind had not flattered, but faithfully recorded, their appearance. Well might a primitive barbarian fall down before them, believing them to be divine! The pedestrians, for their part, neither looked at nor spoke to him. It was as though he were a ghost—and that least substantial of spirits, a ghost of the future. For these people did not exist, had never yet existed. If these fleeing pilgrims could see and speak with him, he could tell them of this city’s fate, of the catastrophe that would befall Trynisia and the world beyond. The Great Disaster. He looked at marble walls and towers, seeing in his mind the desolate ruins they would become. He was a prophet of doom robbed of his voice. He walked on through the thronging streets, half expecting some shoulder to brush against his, some gaze to meet his own. Once, a lovely young girl with long golden hair, graceful in the flowing folds of a sky-blue gown, emerged onto the balcony of a guesthouse to look down into the street. She gazed in his direction; her anxious face glowed with relief and recognition, and he opened his mouth to speak—then he saw that her regard was not for him, but for a youth in a green cloak running up the street behind him.

  This did not feel like the visions he had known before; all that he looked upon had the sharp, precise visual texture of everyday reality. The food-of-the-gods had given him his wish: he was an invisible observer in a bygone era, free to walk where he willed. He could go to the palace and see the Faerie Queen on her throne; he could go to the old library and glean the long-lost knowledge of the Elei. And the Star Stone! I can go to the temple, and see the Star Stone! I’ll know then what it looks like.

  He made off in haste through the streets, heading toward the great dome.

  Entering the snow-whitened plaza, he saw to one side a huge pillared building that must be the sibyls’ library. And at the other end rose a glory of marble-faced towers and flying flags: the palace in its heyday, seat of the ruler of the world, here in this city in whose tumbled ruins Damion and his friends would one day take shelter. He turned toward the Temple of Heaven’s snow-pied dome. Atop its portico the stone angels stood with unbroken wings outspread. And there were the two gryphons—cherubim, he corrected himself—the brass of which they were made polished to a dazzling brightness, the bowls between their forepaws aglow with sacred fires. The Guardians of the Light.

  Someone close at hand gave a cry and pointed at the sky. Heads turned upward, Damion’s included.

  A huge, blazing object plunged down through the sky, trailing a long plume of smoke and flame. And above it there was another, and yet another. They were shooting stars—but so huge! He stood transfixed as screams filled the air.

  Even as he watched, the first burning sphere plunged toward the distant ice-strewn sea with a deafening roar and a tremendous billow of steam, silver-edged under the moon. But though its fire was quenched its mischief was not yet done. In a moment he observed, rather than felt, the tremor that ran through the mountain beneath him. People lost their footing in the snow and fell screaming. Cracks appeared in buildings, fires began to break out. He whirled, in time to see with a sense of doom the white-pillared library enveloped in a mass of smoke and licking flames, and the three pillars destined to stand alone forever afterwards become separated from the others by spreading fissures. The knowledge of the Elei died a fiery death within. To the south Damion saw columns of smoke and flame like gigantic bonfires rising from the doomed lowlands. But they would not burn for long. Even as he watched, horror-stricken, a moving mountain of water crested with raging foam descended on the coast.

  Liamar meanwhile burned, its buildings turned to red-mouthed furnaces, its towers to spouting torches. Hot cinders spun across the night sky, carrying ruin to the few roofs that had yet escaped it. To watchers in the lands below, Mount Elendor must now resemble a volcano, belching forth fire and fumes into the night as the city on its summit burned to ashes. Melting snow poured in torrents along the gutters. People fled through the streets, screaming, heading for the gateway and the mountainside beyond. And there were other figures running through the firelit streets—men with malformed and brutish faces, inhuman and hideous, swords and clubs in their hands. They had taken advantage of the Disaster to wreak revenge on the Elei.

  In the sky red flames leaped and glared: flames not born of the fires here below. A huge black shape flew down, tearing the smoke-pall to tatters. Its fiery exhalations mingled with the ruddy glow bene
ath, illuminating its vast ribbed wings and the scaly armor of its flanks. Low over the city it swooped, just as the crimson dragon had done in Damion’s own time. But this dragon was very much larger, and black in color save for its belly, which was red as blood. Its head swiveled downward, and a gout of flame burst from its jagged jaws.

  Firedrake. It was hard not to feel fear, even though he instinctively sensed that no harm could come to his incorporeal self. More of the creatures circled like gore-crows higher up, riding the hot updrafts from the burning. He wrenched his eyes from the appalling devastation before him, and broke into a run. He must get inside the temple.

  On the top step he saw a tall slender woman gowned in white, with flowing silver-blonde hair beneath a golden fillet. The High Sibyl, perhaps, or a noblewoman: she wore no concealing veil. A company of the hideous beast-men rushed the marble steps and she drove them back, her hands outspread in calm denial, some strange power pouring from her invisible as wind. Her long pale hair blew back in the furnace-blasts from the burning city, yet even the flying embers could not touch her. Still her assailants did not flee in fear, but only drew back and waited. Did they sense that her strength could not last much longer?

  Damion, however, could ascend the steps unchallenged. He raced up them. Within the great structure the forms of veiled and white-clad women milled in confusion. Many stood around the central shrine, which was surrounded by huge candles in golden holders, braziers and vases of flowers. As he watched, several sibyls ran toward the statue of Elarainia, and opened the door that led to the sanctum. He made haste to follow them. At the end of the corridor the bronze doors stood open. He saw the sanctum’s interior, the garlands of fresh and living flowers, the blue starred canopy.

  “The Stone!” a woman’s voice cried. “The Stone!” And as he watched, fascinated, the sibyls parted the starry curtains and lifted out a small white casket of what looked like alabaster, carved with many-pointed stars. In there—the Star Stone was in there, in that little box! As they passed him he groped for it, futilely, with an insubstantial hand. The Stone was not in his time, but theirs. He could only watch in frustration as they bore it away.