by Alison Baird
“Yes, you’ve been raving about that for some time. It’s that herbal potion we gave you.”
Potion? She sank back onto the bed, feeling shaky. There was a pounding sensation in her head.
“We’ve had to hold you down here for the last three weeks—and a very noisy and uncooperative prisoner you were too. We gave you the potion to try and pacify you, but it only made you delirious. We can’t let you go yet. We must get Lorelyn out of the country first. I will go tell Ana you’re awake at last.” He turned as if to leave.
“Delirious. Then . . . none of it was real.” The ocean voyage—the quest for the Stone—her flight on the dragon’s back—the beautiful Elei palace. And Damion’s friendship. This cold, brusque young man was not the Damion she had known. But that Damion, it seemed, was nothing but a dream.
“No,” she moaned. “Oh, no.” She looked up at him desperately. “It can’t all have been fever dreams! It can’t have been—” She broke off, put her hands to her face. Of course it had all been a delusion. Hadn’t she suspected it all along? Lorelyn—old Ana—Damion—the Stone, the faerie island. Oh, it was easy to see how her febrile brain had put the whole thing together, weaving together strands from her own experience and the old stories she loved! “But it felt . . . so real,” she said in a halting voice. “The voyage, and the journey to the mountain—and then finding the Star Stone! It was just the way I’d always imagined it . . .”
“Exactly. You did imagine it. You haven’t been anywhere, Ailia Shipwright. You’ve been down here all this time. The potion has taken away some of your memories and replaced them with delusions. Ana said that might happen. Does your head hurt?” Wordlessly she nodded. “She said there might be a headache, afterwards. It’s the herbs, Ailia.” He leaned forward. “Can’t you recall your real life? Tell me, where are you from?”
The words fell from her lips like lead. “Great Island.”
“So you haven’t lost that memory. Good. Now where were you born? Who were your parents?”
“Bayport village—on the south coast. My father is Dannor Shipwright, and my mother’s name is Nella.”
The flame-blue eyes burned through her. “Go on—back to the beginning. What is the first thing you remember?”
“I . . . don’t know.” The blood drummed in her temples. She could not think.
“Come, everyone has a first memory. Find it, Ailia. Remember who you are.”
Her head was swimming, drooping. She cradled it in her hands. “Leave me alone. Why are you asking me this? Leave me alone!”
“I’m trying to help you. You’ll just have to trust me—”
“Trust you!” she exclaimed, overcome with pain and bitterness. Was this the real Damion Athariel, then—this cold young man, this liar? If so, it would have been better to stay delirious. “And you call yourself a priest!” she burst out, in anger and despair.
“Not anymore I don’t. I became disenchanted with the priesthood. I made no secret of it: everyone knew. And I was only ordained a year ago, after all.”
“Two years,” she flashed back, then stopped.
The room had gone very still all of a sudden. The walls quivered before her eyes, as if from a haze of heat. She began to rise from the bed, still staring at the man who stood before her.
“Your memory’s playing tricks again,” he said. “Do you think I wouldn’t know my own ordination day?”
But she had seen it—the moment’s hesitation before his reply. “What was the name of the boy who was your best friend at the orphanage?” she asked.
He said nothing, glaring at her. “What of it?” he snapped at last. His eyes turned to ice.
Now she was certain. “You don’t know!” Ailia set her feet on the floor. “Well, I do. Lorelyn told me. His name is Kaithan.” She stood, confronting him. “You’re not Damion.”
“Ailia, don’t you think you—”
“You’re not Damion!” she screamed. This man looked like him, and yet not: that was not Damion’s soul that looked out at her from the cold blue eyes.
Then he threw off the disguise, like a man shrugging a cloak from his shoulders: Damion’s likeness fell away from him, and it was Mandrake who stood there before her.
“You little fool,” he hissed. “You won’t let me make this easy for you, will you?”
The walls quivered like curtains in a wind, swaying and melting into air. And then they were gone, and she was in a different room: a lavishly appointed chamber with a high molded ceiling. Outside its tall windows she could see turrets against a dark sky. I’m in the palace still! She looked at the man who stood in front of the door—it was an elegant door now, tall and gold-trimmed with decorative carving at the lintel. “Illusion—that was all an illusion of some kind, wasn’t it?”
He nodded. “I was trying to help you. I meant to return you to Maurainia, to the ruin at the Academy. You would have awakened there, and fled back outside, and for the rest of your life you’d have believed your journey to be just a hallucination—”
“And you’d have let me believe all those horrible lies about Damion and Ana!”
She backed away from him as he advanced upon her. She saw that she was clad not in the gray nightgown, but in her travel-stained postulant’s dress. Hysterical laughter effervesced in her throat. It was real, it had all been real, the adventure of the Stone had happened!
“Ailia, listen to me,” said Mandrake. The anger was gone from his voice; it was soothing now, and gentle. “I meant you no harm. The illusion was only intended to make your return to Maurainia easier. I am trying to help you, to set you back on the right path—”
“Why are you here, with Lorelyn?” she countered. “Where are the others? Did you do something to them too?”
“It is time for you to go home, Ailia. You don’t belong here.”
She must not listen. His voice was low, hypnotic, and with every sentence he took another step toward her. He was only two paces away. She must do something—but what? Desperately she thought of the old stories, of the heroes and heroines whose pluck and resourcefulness she had so admired.
She turned away from him and darted over to the nearest window, which overlooked the forecourt. “The dragon!” she cried. “The tame dragon that brought me here—it’s flying this way!”
“Do you think I would fall for a trick like that?” he said, his tone contemptuous.
“But he’s really there!” She struggled with the window-latch, making the tall pane swing outward. “Here—I’m here!” she screamed into the night. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mandrake stride toward one of the other windows facing the court.
At once she bolted for the door.
It was not locked; she had it open in less than a second and raced away down the hall. She heard him calling after her and frantically increased her speed. The hall dead-ended behind her and turned a corner up ahead, but halfway along its length it became an open gallery with railings, and a double stair of marble steps led down under a carved ceiling. Of course—that grand front staircase. Holding up her ragged skirts, she tore down it, certain that Mandrake was behind her, though she dared not even a quick look over her shoulder as she ran. She flew out the entrance and into the paved forecourt.
It was still empty of all but horses and carriages: there would be no help here. But no hindrance either. She ran on, ignoring the muscle-stitch that was spreading again through her side, through the great gates and toward the winding road as if all the demons of the Pit were after her.
Above her the sky was very dark, with clouds scudding over it to hide the stars. A storm was on its way: she heard thunder boom overhead as she ran. She did not know where she was going and in her extremity she did not care. Her one thought was to escape from the sorcerer. Could she hide from him, somewhere in the grounds? There were all those pavilions and gazebos and things . . . She did not see the man beside her until he caught her arm in a grip that was strong enough to stop her, though not to hurt her.
Sh
e screamed, struggling with all her might, but could not break his hold.
“It’s Ailia all right!” exclaimed a voice in her ear.
She knew that voice—it was Jomar’s! The Mohara man was right there beside her. But was he real, or only another illusion?
“Ailia!” exclaimed a second voice, and Damion appeared out of the dark. He came up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “We heard you shouting. What have they been doing to you in there?” he demanded.
Ailia relaxed. It was no illusion this time, she was sure. This really was the Damion she knew and trusted and loved. How he had come to be here, she neither knew nor cared: it was he. She leaned into his arms and closed her eyes.
“It would appear,” said a voice from behind them, “that I have visitors.”
They all turned with one movement, to see Mandrake standing in the gateway to the forecourt.
“Not unexpected visitors, at any rate,” he continued, walking toward them. “I knew you would come, once Ana revived. I spared your lives and hers in Trynisia, in payment for an old debt. But there is nothing to hold me back this time.”
Jomar stepped forward and drew his sword. “If you want a fight, I’ll be happy to oblige.”
“Don’t be foolish,” returned Mandrake, his tone icy.
There was a scraping sound as Damion drew his own sword, a weapon that Ailia had not seen before, with a blade that shone like diamond. He moved to stand at Jomar’s side. The sorcerer stood his ground as the two men advanced upon him, regarding them with undisguised disdain.
Ailia called out, “No! Damion—Jomar—stop! He’s right, you can’t fight him!”
Damion was within two paces of Mandrake when he heard her warning cry. But his eyes were riveted on his enemy’s face. In the dim light Mandrake’s eyes were a strange sight, the slit pupils enormously dilated so that they all but eclipsed the irises. When had he seen eyes like that before, deep night-black eyes surrounded by thin bands of gold . . . ?
Mandrake reared up to his full height, his arms outstretched, and the long cloak with its lining of blood-red silk lifted on the rising wind like wings. From out of nowhere a mist formed, seething up out of the grass, an unnatural mist that did not bend before the wind but boiled up into a dense white column. Within it the dark towering form of the sorcerer seemed to grow larger before their eyes. And those were wings that spread behind him, wings red and shimmering and bony as a bat’s . . . And his face had changed: the dark dilated eyes were huge now, horns thrust out from the tossing mane of hair. The hands were tipped with talons, reaching out to seize them.
As if in a nightmare, they saw forming before them in the mist a vast shape—fire-colored, scale-armored, with wings that blotted out the sky, and a horn-crowned head whose eyes blazed down upon them. It was no glaumerie cast to confuse them: the creature was there, it was real. The earth trembled beneath it as it moved. Damion stared at the monster, stunned. It seemed even larger than when he had last encountered it in the mountain cave. Its baleful black-and-gold eyes flared into lambent discs. Mandrake’s eyes. But there was no time to ponder the terrifying transformation; already the Dragon King was upon them.
Behind him Ailia cried out, and the sound galvanized Damion into action. He held up his sword, remembering the creature’s seeming fear of it in the caves. The Dragon King halted in mid-charge. His burning eyes narrowed, focusing upon the sword with malevolent intensity.
Then he reared up, roaring in rage, as Jomar, recovering from his own staggerment at the sorcerer’s transformation, attacked from the side. Turning on his assailant, the dragon lashed out with a claw and sent the Mohara man flying.
Damion rushed in as the dragon turned, following Jomar’s lead, and got in a blow at the left flank.
But the Dragon King was no mere beast, to be thus outwitted by his foes. Roaring in rage, he leaped into the air, striking from above with teeth and tail and talons. His fury filled the night with noise, and still he barred the way to Halmirion.
There were people streaming down the front steps of the palace and across the forecourt, alerted no doubt by the noise outside. They stopped short when they saw the dragon. Lorelyn was in their midst, and with a cry she elbowed her way through the crowd, gripping her long white skirts in her left hand. In her right she held something that shone in the lamplight with a glassy glitter.
Ailia stood rooted where she was, in terror. She saw Jomar lying on the ground, and Damion waving his sword wildly at the jaws that snapped at him from above. She forced herself to look at the giant flapping shape above: it was the dragon, but it was Mandrake also. The two were one and always had been. Ana’s voice spoke in her memory: “The celestial dragons could change their shapes at will, becoming anything they wished—bird, beast, or human being.” As she watched in an agony of fear, Damion aimed a slash at a claw that reached down for him. He did not see the tail scything forward at the same time.
“Damion, look out!” Ailia screamed.
The middle part of the tail, thick as her waist, struck Damion in the back and knocked him off his feet. The adamantine sword flew from his grip.
“No!” Lorelyn raced over the grass, the Star Stone in hand.
The dragon dropped back to earth and faced her. The atmosphere, already charged with the stress of the storm, became electric as the two confronted each other. Tension coursed between them like lightning.
Lorelyn was very pale, but she placed herself between the monster and the two prone men, still clutching the Stone in her hand. She held it out in a warding gesture, but its crystalline depths did not kindle as before with the starlike radiance. It was only a clear gem, cold and lifeless in her hand. The dragon took a step toward her, its scaly neck thrust out, undaunted.
With a shout Lorelyn flung down the Stone, then, darting to one side, she pounced at Damion’s sword of adamant where it lay gleaming on the grass. Seizing the jeweled hilt in both hands, she raised the blade to meet the dragon’s charge. It blazed with blue fire, and he roared and spread his wings.
No, Ailia thought. This was wrong: the Tryna Lia was supposed to face the dragon with the Star Stone. She could not win otherwise . . . Lorelyn took a spirited swing at the monster’s outstretched muzzle. But he pulled his head back and leaped up into the air again. Her golden hair streamed back in the wind of his wings as he hovered over her.
“Lori, no! The Stone—use the Stone!” Ailia looked wildly about her. The crowds on the steps were still huddled in fear. On the ground Damion stirred, looking dazed, and tried to rise. Jomar too was struggling to regain his feet, shaking his head groggily and looking about him for his sword.
The Star Stone—it was the weapon Lorelyn needed, that she was born to wield. Summoning all her courage Ailia ran toward the discarded jewel. It was beginning to glow again, with a pale light like the moon half veiled behind a cloud. Ailia dropped to her knees and closed her hand around the cool hard crystal. At once the light grew stronger, brighter—blinding. She averted her eyes.
The Dragon King plunged earthwards again, and his great head lashed out quick as a striking snake’s. Still Lorelyn stood firm, sword outheld—but his attack was a feint; as she thrust the blazing blade at him he swerved sideways. In her long gown she could not keep her balance: she stumbled as she whirled to face him. Before Ailia could cry, his left foreclaw had struck the girl. The sword dropped to the grass as she fell and rolled over once, twice, then lay still.
“Lori, the Stone!” Ailia shrieked. “Take it, take it!” But the other girl lay motionless. Ailia began to run toward her, waving the incandescent gem.
“Ailia, no!” yelled Damion in horror as the dragon turned to face her.
Lorelyn still lay unmoving—was she unconscious, dead? Ailia shook her shoulder, then turned to the horror of horns and scales and talons not five paces away. The gem in her hand burned white, banishing the night from around her: the radiance beat through her blood-red fingers and spilled between them in long rays. The radiance blazed into
the dragon’s eyes, making the great black pupils contract into slits, deep crevices through which malevolence glared out at her. But he was afraid: she could see it. Afraid—not of the Stone, but of the light within it.
With all her might, with all the strength of her desperate fear, she ran at him and thrust the jewel at his scaly face.
The monster roared and recoiled. She advanced a step, her hand held palm outward, letting the Stone-light blast forth, holding it at as a shield between the dragon and Lorelyn. Again he retreated. Damion and Jomar took advantage of his momentary distraction to seize their swords and leap to their feet again, attacking from right and left. Damion’s blade found a chink between two of the ventral plates under the flank and bit deep, while Jomar’s blade tore at a flailing wing. Blood flowed, darker red against scarlet scales: the dragon bellowed and pulled away, yanking Damion’s weapon from his grasp.
With the sword still embedded in his side, the huge creature sprang into the air. But he was unable to fly: his slashed wing crumpled like a storm-rent sail, and he was forced to plane downward, vanishing into the thick vegetation that clothed the hillside. A crashing commotion marked his descent.
“After him!” called out Jomar hoarsely. He plunged down the slope, his sword outheld. Damion hesitated, then followed him. The light of the Stone did not reach this far, and the hillside was a tangle of shadow. They plunged through shrubs and thorny rosebushes, brushing the clinging branches aside as they followed the broad swathe of crushed greenery.
Halfway down the hillside the trail of blood and destruction abruptly ended: here they found Damion’s sword, lying with gored blade upon the grass. About the weapon a white mist seethed like smoke, wisping away and dissipating even as they rushed through its pale tendrils. Damion bent to pick up his bloody sword, then stared at Jomar, who gazed mutely back. Beyond this point there were no more gashes from the giant claws, no trace whatsoever remaining of the dragon. He had vanished utterly.
Overhead the storm clouds parted and dwindled, and the stars came out again.
