DragonThrone02 The Empire of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  “Unlikely, Majesty,” said Mandrake. “The Tryna Lia will be reluctant to send again fighters who have already proven so hopeless in battle. And it is even less likely that she will fight you personally. So be comforted.”

  “I must fight her personally! I alone can slay the daughter of the Queen of Night: no mortal hand could accomplish such a task. Yet my godhood is but newly awakened. What if she should strike before my powers are strong enough? I cannot—must not be defeated by her. It is disgrace beyond imagining for any man to die by the hand of a woman. Such a man would be a laughingstock for generations to come.”

  “You are no mere man, O Voice of Valdur,” said Berengazi with an obsequious bow.

  “True, I am not, but neither is she a common woman.”

  “Do you doubt yourself, King?” asked Mandrake.

  Khalazar straightened. “No; in my heart of hearts I know that I am king and god. But I had not reckoned with a struggle such as this. When gods war with one another, it is said, the very stars are shaken: now I know that saying is true.”

  Mandrake reflected that the loss of lives should have turned the Arainians against Ailia, the direct cause of the first war to trouble their world in centuries. But they were too blind in their devotion to her: he must seek to bring her down in other ways. He still had not learned where the Tryna Lia had gone; but her own allies did not know either. To have her friends as hostages could prove very useful. There was only one possible way to control a being as powerful as Ailia: capture weaker ones that she loved.

  The regent of Ombar spoke in a low voice to Mandrake as they left the room together. “Even if the Tryna Lia does not come to Mera, it is well that we have a firm foothold in this world.”

  “Thanks to my efforts,” Mandrake reminded him.

  Naugra smiled. “Yours? Surely it was Valdur who told you to do these things. You thought only to set Khalazar in your place, confusing the enemy and sparing yourself from attack; and now you see what has happened: a Valei reign is established on Mera! You have heard that Marakor has signed a pact with Zimboura? And that their crown prince has wed the heir to Maurainia’s throne? Soon all of this world will be ours, and our hosts shall gather here to mount their assault upon Arainia. Now you would not have thought of that, Prince, not alone: you never cared what became of that world.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” replied Mandrake, heading for the stair that led to his tower room. “I have always opposed the lingering taint of Archonic interference wherever I found it, and Arainia was one of their chief worlds. But I am unconvinced that your Valdur was any better than his rivals.”

  “He sought to end their dominance of the worlds—”

  “Merely to substitute his own particular brand of tyranny.”

  The regent’s thin lip curled. “You understand nothing.”

  “You’re very disrespectful,” said Mandrake. “Have you no fear that I might pay you back for your insolence should I ever accept this throne you offer me?”

  The curve of the withered lips widened. “But when you take the kingship of Ombar you will no longer be yourself, Prince. On that day Valdur will remove your spirit from your mortal frame, and replace it with his own.”

  I wouldn’t count too much on that, my friend, Mandrake thought as he climbed the stairs to his private chamber. And I will remember those words.

  But the conversation had left a disagreeable aftertaste.

  He had scarcely entered the chamber when the air in one corner quivered and Roglug’s ethereal form stood there. “Well?” asked Mandrake curtly.

  “We have found Ailia.”

  Mandrake seated himself. “You don’t say. Well, where is she?”

  “At the bottom of the sea.”

  “What?”

  “She tried to enter Nemorah in her star-ship—wishing to find and fight you, no doubt. But one of your wing-patrols pursued the craft, and it struck an island mountain and went down over the Eastern Ocean.”

  Mandrake let out a long breath. Ailia—lost in the Nemoran sea! Could it be true? “The last time I believed her drowned, she turned out to be very much alive,” he pointed out dryly.

  “But she has not been seen since. There have been no sorcerous manifestations, and no calls through the Ether for help,” the goblin told him.

  “Which proves nothing: she could be lying low somewhere. Tell the Loänei to conduct a search for her body. How many know of this?”

  “Just the patrol riders and the drakes. And they don’t know yet it was the Tryna Lia’s ship: they just considered it an intruder, and brought it down. I recognized the description of the vessel she fled Temendri Alfaran in, but I did not tell them.”

  “Good. Then conduct the search yourself, and take with you one of the Loänan that are loyal to me. If you do find her remains, tell me. But I suspect that she lives, and I will continue to do so until it is proven otherwise.”

  But despite these words, he yearned to believe that it could end so easily for both of them.

  AILIA WAS DREAMING: of emerald deeps and watery abysses, of great beds of kelplike plants towering to many times the height of the tallest tree, casting beneath them a green shade and sun-stipple like a terrestrial forest. Here was the haunt of the serpent, and the many-armed kraken; here too was her home, and the dwelling place of all her kind. She glided slowly and ponderously through the depths, beating giant fins, until a rumbling tremor brought her back to herself.

  Ailia rubbed her eyes and sat up, to find that she was lying on the grassy slope of the island-beast, under the glare of the twinned suns.

  What a strange dream that was. And what a mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Ailia scolded herself. You and your absurd notions of being brave! You will probably end up perishing of heatstroke: a fine heroic end that would be!

  The giant sea creature was still swimming steadily. Her greatest fear was that it would decide to dive into the depths, bearing her down with it to a watery death. According to Bendulus’s Bestiary aspidochelones had been known to do this to sailors who were unfortunate enough to set campfires on what they thought was an island. That might only be a fable, but Ailia was very glad she had not made any magical attempts to start a fire. The tortoiselike shell armor seemed as impervious as the rock it resembled, but one never knew . . .

  Aside from the great flailing fins and whalelike tail, she saw very little of the beast; most of it remained below the surface, like an iceberg. Certainly it evinced not the slightest interest in the tiny human parasite now riding upon its back. She thought of the monsters she had seen in her dream-vision: the great sea serpents, the orcs like huge reptilian fish with their finned and streamlined bodies. No doubt the aspidochelone’s armor was a natural defense from their attacks. She shuddered now to recall how she herself had swum, unprotected, through this very sea to reach the “island.” There were creatures in the deeps below that could have eaten her in one bite.

  None of these aquatic hunters came to menace her mount, fortunately. In the early morning, before the suns had set fire to the Eastern Sea, it crossed paths with a scolopendra, which Ailia in the gray light took at first for a trireme oaring through the waves. She was close to hailing it when it drew nearer and she saw the segmented chitinous carapace and the long waving antennae, and recognized the gigantic crustacean of legend rowing along at the surface with its multiple legs, like an immense water beetle. She held her breath, fearing it might engage the aspidochelone in a titanic battle that would prove disastrous to her, but the two monsters only swam past one another, indifferent as passing ships.

  She sat down again and returned her gaze to the horizon, chin in hands. Hours passed, and the day grew bright. Her eyes were so dazzled by the play of sea and double sunlight to the east that she did not at first take in what she saw.

  Then she shot to her feet and ran to the shore of shell at the sea’s edge.

  There was a long dark strip on the eastern horizon. Land! In desperation she flung herself on the mossy back
of the aspidochelone and pounded it with her fists, crying, “The land—go to the land!” But of course it wouldn’t, she knew—it was a creature of the deeps, and would only strand itself in the shallows.

  Yet after a while she was certain that the land was drawing slowly nearer. Dare she try and swim for it? Who knew what monsters might lurk in the water between her and the shore? She could see vegetation now, lush and green, and behind it some cloud-clad mountains. The aspidochelone was definitely heading toward it. The water level gradually dropped, exposing the beast’s gray shell-plated sides and its enormous scaly flippers. She could see the rest of the huge head now, all covered in weeds and shellfish, like a boulder exposed by low tide.

  It will beach itself and die if it goes any closer, thought Ailia. What if she had been influencing the huge animal? That curious vision of the deeps—perhaps while she slept she had formed a mental link with the primitive mind of the aspidochelone. She had been told her powers were stronger than she knew: what if, in sharing its thoughts of the deep, she had somehow passed on to it her own desire for the land? In sudden dismay at the creature’s plight, she ran impulsively to the side of its shell, behind the fin, and leaped into the clear green water. It had saved her life, albeit unintentionally: she must return the favor. As she swam landward the pale sandy bottom grew more distinct. Soon she was splashing and wading rather than swimming, and then with a gasp she fell her length on the smooth sand of the shore.

  There was a rushing sound behind her, and great waves swept up the beach, nearly sucking her out to sea again. Turning, she saw an awesome sight: the aspidochelone bulked behind her, stone-gray and colossal beyond belief, the “island” only a small patch of green on its back, like a saddle. In shape it resembled a monstrous whale, and yet it was reptilian, too: the shell armor and curving fore flippers reminded her of a sea turtle’s. For a moment the giant eye, large as a temple window and green as the deeps from whence it had come, seemed to stare directly at her. Then the creature turned itself laboriously about and headed for the open ocean. Far out amid the waves she saw its mighty fluked tail lift briefly against the sky as the gigantic animal, together with the unlucky trees upon its back, plunged back into the depths and was gone.

  Ailia was alone upon an alien shore.

  13

  The Temple of Valdur

  “WHAT IS ALL THAT COMMOTION?” asked Lorelyn, setting down the sword she had been sharpening and standing up.

  The calm of evening had settled upon the village in the oasis, along with a rich wine-colored light; a few half-naked children still played in the square of earth before the chieftain’s hut, but most had withdrawn to their homes. Women sat together in doorways, chattering as they strung beads or sewed torn garments, and the smallest children leaned against their sides or slept in their laps. Most of the men had gone out on patrol, and a few were starting to trickle back in small groups. Now Unguru and his scouts came into the village, dragging a young man with them and shattering the peace. “We found this Zim pig trying to approach the oasis,” said Unguru, dumping the man unceremoniously on the ground. “Shall we kill him?”

  “Was he alone?” asked Makitu, the Mohara chieftain, emerging from his hut.

  “Yes—on horseback. We shot his mount out from under him.”

  “Waste of a good animal,” gasped the young man, speaking in coarse, halting Elensi. “A pity—even though it wasn’t mine.”

  “He surely wouldn’t have come all by himself if he were trying to harm us,” Lorelyn argued as Unguru stood over the prisoner, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. “Why, he’s not even armed.”

  “That is right,” the Zimbouran said. “I am here with—with peaceful intent—”

  “Spy,” hissed Unguru, and raised the sword. “You came here to find us, and get the reward from your king!”

  “No.” Lorelyn stepped between the Zimbouran and the blade, looking steadily into the Mohara warrior’s dark eyes. “He should be taken to Jomar. To the Zayim—remember? It’s for him to say what shall be done. Somebody find Jomar and Damion.”

  Unguru’s eyes smoldered as she had seen Jomar’s do so many times before, and some of the other warriors began muttering among themselves. But a few also looked uneasy. This angel with her strange sky-colored eyes served the Zayim, whose authority came directly from the Morning Star. Feeling their mood, Unguru reluctantly lowered the sword and looked at Makitu, who nodded his turbaned head. “The prisoner shall be shown to Jomar first.”

  Once Jomar and Damion had arrived the Zimbouran defended himself against all charges of spying and assassination. “I came to join you,” he said, over and over again. “See, I have no weapon. I am only a farmer, Kiran Jariss by name, not a servant of the king. I would gladly help his enemies, and there are many in the countryside who feel the same.”

  “Zimbourans join with the Mohara?” Unguru retorted. “Your kind hates us. You care only for your God-king.” He spat in the sand.

  “Care for him!” The other’s eyes flashed. “I hate Khalazar! He has made our lives a misery, he and his clerics. They keep us poor and hungry by punishing us if we have fewer than three wives and if those wives do not all bear children. They do not care if the children have bread to eat or not. I only want a decent life for my family, and food on the table. Khalazar is a fraud, like all the other God-kings before him. Any enemy of his is a friend of ours. And the Elei people liberated Zimboura once before.” He looked hopefully toward Damion, who stood close by.

  “How can we believe this Zimbouran?” Jomar asked Damion. “Unguru’s right. He might be a spy, sent to fool us and trap us.”

  “He risked his life to come here, didn’t he?” argued Damion. “I can’t believe anyone would do that unless he were truly desperate.”

  Jomar sniffed. “Or if he were a crazy zealot obeying his God-king.”

  “But those Valdur zealots in the city are the exception, aren’t they? From what I have heard most Zimbourans are more interested in surviving than in serving Khalazar. They’re a very practical people, really. This man doesn’t seem insane or fanatical. And when sane people do mad things it’s usually because they are pushed into them by circumstances outside their control.” Something about the young man’s angry denunciations, he thought, rang true.

  Some Moharas put up considerable resistance to Damion’s arguments, be he an angel or not: old hatreds died hard in this land. But eventually most saw the logic of including at least some Zimbourans in their plans. “We need spies,” Damion pointed out. “And only Zimbourans would be able to move freely in the city. They could tell us what’s happening there.”

  “Pah! They’ll betray us as soon as they’re offered money by their soldiers,” said Unguru. “The Pale Ones are loyal only to their own kind—though they will never fight for anything unless they are forced.”

  Kiran Jariss looked up at that and said, with a sudden glint in his brown eyes, “We are fighters. We fight to live. We have done so ever since we dwelt on the steppes of the Southern Peninsula, where all is barren and cold. Our will to thrive caused us to leave that place at last, moving north to warmer climes. Nothing could stand before us. We conquered the old empire of Kaana, took the Kaans’ lands and drove them across the sea to their island colonies, from which they have never returned. We are warriors, we Zimbourans, because we love life despite its harshness—else we never would have survived our long ages in the bitter South.”

  “Children of Valdur,” Unguru spat.

  “So you call us. But long ago,” the other replied, “ages before the clerics of Valdur ever arose and demanded that we worship him, we revered the same gods as you Moharas. It was from you that we first learned of Nayah the sky-goddess, and Akkar her consort who dwells in the earth. Now their worship is banned in our country, but the Zimbouran people have not forgotten the old beliefs.”

  “Liar!” snarled the warrior, and swung toward Jomar.“Why do you not silence him?”

  Jomar hesitated. He
sympathized with Unguru, but his time away from Mera had dulled the sharp edge of his hatred and given him perspective. Certainly some Zimbourans had as much reason as the Moharas to hate the God-king under whose tyranny they lived. Better still, their disaffection might spread. To turn Khalazar’s own people against him would be a great achievement.

  “All right, Jariss,” he agreed reluctantly. “We’ll try it for a while—but if you betray us, Zimbouran, you’ll pay a heavy price. I’ll hunt you down myself—and that’s a promise.”

  Jariss smiled broadly. “I will not fail you,” he swore. “I do this for my family. I have two wives now, one of them my sister-in-law who was widowed in the battle. I had to take her in, and her children. I have four children of my own by my first wife. Now our farm is ruined by the battle and I have had to move my family to the city to live. I tell you, the people there have no hatred for the Moharas or the peoples of the west: it is Khalazar they murmur against, though they dare say nothing in public. They would gladly serve the son of Jemosa.”

  “Who’s he?” grunted Jomar.

  “You.”

  Jomar stared. “What are you saying?”

  “You don’t know who your parents were, do you, Jomar? But I think I do. General Jemosa was a great warrior and a well-born man of my race, much loved in the city, for he used his wealth and position to help the poor. Both Khalazar and King Zedekara grew to hate him for his popularity. They feared the people would want him for their ruler. But Zedekara was afraid to do anything against him, and Khalazar could not make any charge against him stick. Then the family of the general’s first wife denounced him publicly. He had shamed them, they said. There was a slave in the household, a Mohara woman, whom Jemosa had been in love with ever since he was a boy. They had grown up together in his father’s house. Jemosa did not see a slave when he looked at Nehari, but only a beautiful girl. She secretly returned his love, and he freed her of all her slave’s duties and vowed to make her his wife in name. When Khalazar heard this, he knew he finally had his excuse to execute the general, and send Nehari and her child to the slave camps. I think you are that child, Jomar.”