DragonThrone02 The Empire of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  Tiron sat down once more and bowed his head. “No—not again. It was like this, when she left—when she fled the palace with our child, leaving me—”

  “Father.” Ailia knelt by his side and took his hand in hers, peering up into his lowered eyes. No distance lay now between her and him. She had loved him first for his kindness and gentle ways, and later for all those things they had in common, like their desire for knowledge. Had she had any lingering doubts that he was her true father, they had vanished long ago. Now, looking up into his anguished face, she needed no Nemerei power to sense what he was suffering. He had lost her once, for many long years; then he had regained her, only to find that she had no memory of him and her love had been given to another family. They had at last begun to bridge that gap of years, and now she was to be taken away from him once more. She too felt a wrenching pain at the thought of a second separation. But she knew, too, that Auron was right. He could not protect her, and neither could Tiron. It was difficult to say what she knew she must, and she chose her words with care. “Father, they are right. Perhaps you can come and join me, later. But I must go with them, away from here.”

  And now that she had her desire to see other worlds, she felt only distress and fear.

  LATER THAT EVENING DAMION FOUND her sitting by herself, perched on the low stone parapet that circled the plateau. She was wrapped in a fur cloak against the cold, staring up at the sky, and her back was turned toward him so she did not see him approach. Neither, it seemed, did she hear him, for she did not turn around but remained intent on the great field of stars before her. He stood for a time watching her, reluctant to intrude on whatever thoughts were holding her rapt and motionless, and also unwilling to say what he had come to say. He felt, too, a great wave of pity and tenderness toward her, knowing what her response to his words would likely be. She was so near to him now, and yet they were soon to be parted by a distance so great that it could scarcely be imagined, and years might well pass before they saw one another again. If indeed it was their fate to meet again . . . He found himself wishing that she would turn her head and see him, so that he would be able to speak without first destroying whatever peace of mind she might have found out here. But she continued in her quiet contemplation of the heavens, unaware of him or anything in the world about her.

  At last he could endure it no more. He stepped closer and cleared his throat. “Ailia? Is it safe for you out here, on your own?” he asked.

  “I’m not alone.” Ailia pointed to a shape like a cloud, but moving more swiftly than any cloud could, scudding across the Arch of Heaven. “A Loänan—do you see? There will be more of them scattered about, disguised as other creatures, watching over me.” She stood, and turned to look at the Gate of Earth and Heaven where it loomed black against the sky. “Ana has gone. I saw her leave. She walked through the portal and then she—vanished. She told me before she went that she only stayed here in Arainia to keep an eye on me until the Loänan agreed to guard me. Somehow she knew, or guessed, that they were making up their minds about me and would decide sooner or later. So she’s in Mera now, and after Jo’s army goes through, the Nemerei will seal the portal again for safety. There is another rift, Auron says, high up in the air where no one but a Loänan can reach it: he and I will take that way.” She looked skyward again. “I used to gaze at the stars when I was a child on Great Island, trying to imagine what it would be like to journey to them. And now I am really going to do it. I still can’t quite believe it.”

  “I am sure you will be safe there. And you’ll have another fine story to tell.” Damion paused a moment before speaking again. “Ailia, I have decided to join Jo’s campaign on Mera.”

  Ailia continued to gaze at the sky. “I was—afraid you would,” she said without looking at him.

  He went and stood beside her at the parapet. “Jomar is my friend, and Mera is my world. I must help them. Khalazar has to be stopped.”

  She turned to face him then. In the starlight, she thought, he looked more beautiful than she had ever seen him, with his pale face and nearly luminous eyes—like the archangel for whom he was named. His expression, too, held something of the serene resolve one saw on the faces of angels in paintings. “I understand,” she said, “but—you’re not a warrior, Damion! I saw how you looked after killing that Anthropophagus in Mera!” She hated to remind him, but she was growing desperate. “You’re not meant to fight and kill people. There are other ways you can help Arainia.”

  Gently he tried to make her understand. “I have training and experience. I can’t leave the most difficult task of all to others. I would never be able to live with myself if I let Jo and the others go into possible danger, and stayed here myself, in safety.”

  “How do you suppose I feel?” she cried. Her hands clenched on the edge of the parapet. “I keep thinking that if I really were the warrior queen of the prophecy, I would end this conflict myself, and not leave it to others.”

  “You’re not strong enough yet.”

  “But I hope to learn a great deal from Auron’s people, and become a sorceress one day. I may be able to free Mera then.”

  “Khalazar won’t wait until you are ready—and neither will Mandrake. Many innocent lives are in danger now, and we must do something. Remember, it may not turn into a war. Mandrake won’t waver, but Khalazar might become frightened and give up his ideas of conquest. But whatever does happen, I want to be there by Jo’s side.”

  “I suppose nothing I say can change your mind,” she said helplessly. “But I can’t help saying it anyway. Damion—please don’t go.” Now was the time—to tell him she loved him, needed him, could not bear to lose him. Would even that be enough to stop him? she wondered miserably, and was suddenly afraid to speak.

  He took a jeweled dagger from his belt and held the hilt out to her. “Here. I want you to have this.”

  Ailia recoiled from it, as if from a snake. “No, no. I could never use it. I hate weapons.”

  “Ailia, even roses have thorns to protect themselves. Heaven forbid, but you might someday be in a situation where sorcery won’t help you. I would feel better if I knew you had this. Please.”

  Reluctantly she took the dagger. It felt hard and heavy in her hand. “All right then. I will call it my Thorn. When will you be—leaving?”

  “The army departs tomorrow morning. I’m going with them, as Jomar’s second in command. The Nemerei will open the portal for us and move us through the Ether to Mera. We will be going to the desert outside Felizia, the capital. Dragons will guard us by air and warn us at once of any attack by land.”

  “Mandrake will be there,” she almost whispered.

  “Don’t worry. There are plenty of Nemerei going with us too.” He looked away. “I must go and report now. We’re gathering our forces on the mountainside.”

  “So—you came to say goodbye.”

  He took her hands in his, gazing down at her for a long time without speaking, and then he bent his head. She caught her breath, her cheeks flushing, but the kiss fell on her cheek and not her mouth. Releasing her without another word, he strode away toward the end of the plateau and the mountainside. Not once did he look back.

  She watched him through misting eyes. As soon as he was gone from her view, she picked up her skirts and hastened indoors.

  Once she was in her private cell she closed the door, then went to her bedside table. From one of its drawers she took out a little silver flask. Removing the stopper, she poured out a small amount of clear golden liquid into a goblet. As a Nemerei in training she was now permitted to take ambrosia when she pleased, but her hand shook a little as she emptied the cup. She had never before taken so much of the elixir.

  But I will need a lot, to go where I am going . . .

  She swallowed the last of the liquid, then lay down on her bed, her heart beating fast. She had little hope of succeeding where Melnemeron’s most diplomatic efforts had already failed. But she had to make the attempt. Presently she could feel h
erself drifting . . . mind separating from body, slipping away . . . into the Ether. Zimboura, she thought. Felizia, Yanuvan . . .

  And there was a great fortress of sand-colored stone in her mind, steep-sided, built by ancient hands. It faded from her view and was replaced by a long high-ceilinged hall, all red and gold, a foreign court filled with bright-clad courtiers. She did not see Mandrake there. On a gold-plated, jewel-encrusted throne sat Khalazar: she recognized the heavy, black-bearded face from his ethereal visitation. But now it was she, not he, who was the phantom visitor. A woman screamed shrilly from somewhere behind her, heads turned, and Ailia knew that they could see her.

  “What is it? Who is she?” voices cried. She glanced down, saw her airy form clad in her white robe. “Do not be afraid,” she entreated them. She raised her head again and walked forward, hands held out in a placating gesture. Through the turmoil of the throne room she walked on insubstantial feet, to stand before Khalazar’s dais. She would address his court as he had hers, but her message would be very different. “People of Zimboura,” she began.

  One of Khalazar’s bodyguards yelled and hurled his spear at her. It was hard not to flinch, but she made herself stand still as the weapon passed harmlessly through her ethereal form. Courtiers fled in many directions as the weapon fell clattering to the floor, and wails of terror went up. Khalazar’s eyes seemed about to start from their sockets.

  “A spirit! She’s a spirit!” someone cried.

  Ailia raised her voice. “I am the Tryna Lia.” A collective gasp rose from the court. Ailia continued to address the man on the throne. “Why do you war with me, King? Why pursue a course that will bring only death and destruction? I have done you no harm. I want only peace for both our peoples.”

  “Evil enchantress!” Khalazar screamed, recoiling in his throne. “Begone—begone! Genii, I summon you—”

  “King Khalazar, hear me—” Ailia began.

  “Morlyn—Roglug—Elazar, I command you, come to me!” Khalazar bellowed. He was foaming at the mouth, and his face was flushed as red as his robe; he looked as though he were on the verge of a fit.

  Ailia knew suddenly that it was no use: this man could not be reasoned with. She was only filling him with fear. In despair she drew her mind back, away from Yanuvan and Zimboura. The throne room faded away, and she found herself gazing up at the stark ceiling of her cell.

  Oh, Damion—I tried . . .

  JOMAR LOOKED UP AT THE PILLARED PORTAL rising on its tall isolated pinnacle in the light of early morning. He half-imagined he could see a curious blurring of the air between the stone dragons, like the wavering distortion of a mirage. On the far side of that gaping gate, his reason told him, was empty sky and a steep drop to the plains far, far below: yet he had been assured by the Nemerei that his men would not plunge through it to their deaths, but pass on into the Ethereal Plane, and from there into the world of Mera. He still wasn’t sure about this “Ether” business, but it wasn’t the worst of his worries.

  The Loänan: something about them made his flesh creep. In their true, reptilian shapes they were alarming enough, but what bothered him most was their ability to masquerade in human form. If Mandrake and Auron could deceive them so easily, how many more dragons might still be hiding on this world? He had met a few more since Wu-Auron’s self-revelation: tall graceful people who seemed perfectly human, though sometimes they left little details out. They forgot to put in the fine lines around the eyes, for instance, or wrinkles over their knuckles. That made him shudder. Still, they appeared to be benevolent, and had already been of great help to the Nemerei.

  He drew a deep breath. “Are you ready?” he called to Damion.

  “Ready, General,” Damion shouted back, and rode his mount toward Jomar’s. The latter turned and viewed the assembled ranks of soldiers and cavalry on the mountainside with satisfaction. What they lacked in experience they made up for in strength and spirit. Everywhere he looked he saw young faces, gleaming armor, the tossing manes of horses as eager as their riders to be off. There were over a hundred chariots, several battalions, fifty highly trained knights, cavalry, and several of the most powerful sorcerers—though Jomar was inclined to put his trust in the soldiers first. There were also many Nemerei healers. His hopes rose. Even if it did come to a battle, they might yet win the day.

  “All right then!” he bawled at the troops. He could hear Nemerei speaking in the distance: they heard his words in their minds and were relaying them to all those who were too far to hear their commander’s voice. “You know what it is we go to on Mera. This is real, you understand? Only those willing to fight must follow me.” He paused, hearing the Nemerei voices repeating his words with a fractional delay, like multiple echoes flung back from a cliff: this was followed by a dead silence. Would these men truly follow him anywhere? Or would fear unman some of them at last, as they looked on the slender stone bridge and the dreadful gap of air beyond the gate? No one moved or spoke. Then a cheer broke from the ranks, ragged at first and then swelling and deepening as others took it up. Jomar grinned fiercely.

  “Good! Then—forward!”

  As one, the troops began to march, the chariots, knights, and cavalry leading the way. Trumpets blared, horses neighed as if in answer. The rock rang with the sound of thousands of pounding feet and hooves as they surged forward, each man feeling himself a part of some vast inexorable force—a stone in an avalanche. They marched on toward the bridge and the gate that lay beyond it. One by one they crossed the thin stone span to the portal, and one by one they vanished from the face of the earth.

  8

  Temendri Alfaran

  THE DRAGON-WAY APPEARED as a golden-white, luminous tunnel, rounded in shape, and its course writhed like a serpent: there was always a bend ahead around which one could not see. As Auron sped through it with his small passenger, he was aware of a rising swell of emotion. Each turn of the ethereal passage brought him nearer to his home. After these years of voluntary exile he had begun to yearn for the world of his origin, and the company of his own kind. But he was aware that he was bearing Ailia to an exile of her own, and one just as lonely, for it had been agreed that she should spend most of her time with the Loänan.

  Ailia said little at first, only clinging to his mane. It feels—so strange. Why can I not recall traveling through the Ether with you before? she said at length, speaking mind to mind. We must have passed through it that first time, to get from Mera to Arainia.

  He rolled one great emerald eye back to look at her. It is hard to remember this place-that-is-no-place, he told her. You will find the thought of it fading again once we come out the other side, though now that you are a trained Nemerei you will not forget it altogether. As for feeling strange, you have been translated. Made ethereal, your body turned to pure quintessence, like that of an eidolon.

  Ailia touched her own face, the folds of her gown. He noticed and said, You see and feel a body because that is what your mind is used to. In fact, you and I are now merely a mass of quintessence moving through the higher plane.

  Ailia did not much like the sound of that. She settled back down into his chrysanthemum-colored mane, clinging to his great ivory horns. She noticed that his wings were folded to his sides, since he was not actually flying—perhaps, she reflected, this was the reason celestial dragons in ancient art were sometimes portrayed as wingless. What are they like, the people of these other worlds? she asked him presently.

  Some are Merei and Elei, little different from those in Mera and Arainia, the dragon replied. Others have a more . . . alien appearance. You see, Princess, it has been a very long time since your remote ancestors were taken out of their original world by the Archons and placed on various different planets of the old Imperium. These beings are your blood-kin, but life on other worlds and in alien climes has had an effect upon their physical forms. Still others were deliberately altered by the Archons, and their forms may seem a little—grotesque—to you at first.

  There was a burst
of light, and the golden glow gave way to many more bright colors: purples and indigo blues and swathes of deep rose, all swirled together like witch-oils on water. Behold, Auron said, my home!

  Ailia blinked, feeling giddy from the change. They were out of the Ether and back in her own familiar plane of matter. Yet this was not the Great Void that she had always known, that cold black vacuity thinly dusted with stars: in this place the stars were arranged in thick flurries and firefly swarms, while behind them lay a many-colored glowing light. This, Auron told her, was a great nebula, excited into radiance by the stars. Some of these were blue and fiercely bright, showing their extreme youth in sidereal reckoning; others were little more than embryos, formless luminous masses slowly condensing out of the placental dust clouds within the nebula. One small group of stars, though each was fully formed, was linked together still by hazy blue filaments. This whole region of the heavens was a stellar nursery.

  It took her a moment to detect the planet against that sea of rainbow radiance. Like Arainia it was girdled with ice rings, but its mantle of cloud was opaque and varicolored. There were horizontal bands of blue and gold and violet and pale green, with here and there a red or white spot like a glaring eye. Moons surrounded it, bright as jewels, and in the sky beyond blazed the white star that was its sun. Almost she imagined she could hear the great planet as well as see it: a sound deep as distant thunder, continuous as a cataract, serene as a temple choir, seemed to reverberate through her mind as she looked upon it. The music of a planetary sphere, in its stately procession through space.

  “What a beautiful world,” she gasped. “And how huge it is.” The planet filled nearly all the sky in front of them.

  Yes—it is almost a star. It would have become one had it been a little larger. That is Alfaran, the mother-world, he explained. Temendri Alfaran, our destination, is right below us. It is one of Alfaran’s moons. Auron added, Hold on to me tightly, Highness, for there is scarcely any air to breathe up here save for the little that surrounds my body.